Transitions, Growing Pains, and Lessons in Democracy
by Das Amerikan
Summary: Imagine a world where George Washington and George III struck an agreement that satisfied the colonist's demands, removing the desire to rebel. Imagine a world of continent spanning empires, where aristocracy rules supreme. Now imagine a very militant, very angry republic being plopped square in the middle of that world. This will be...interesting.
1. Unexpected Arrival

**LEGAL NOTICE: THE TWO GEORGES NOVEL BELONGS TO HARRY TURTLEDOVE AND RICHARD DREYFUSS. THE FOLLOWING STORY IS MIKE TURCOTTE'S. With that out of the way, enjoy!**

* * *

 _ **Buffalo, New York, United States of America**_

 _ **July 14, 1944  
**_  
Dean Acheson looked at the contraptions coming towards the bridge. The Army Corps of Engineers had hastily constructed over the Niagara River. The ... event ... as people were calling had actually stopped the mighty Niagara falls for almost a week after it had occurred, but the falls - and if reports were to be believed, most other natural processes were or had returned to normal.

If only humans worked like that as well.

Acheson wasn't sure what to think as he saw the - odd - vehicles making their way across the bridge. Ford engineers had been baffled - they were apparently called 'steam cruisers' in this world, and their ungainly appearance and slow speed had been one of the few sources of amusement anyone had experienced in the last few months. Acheson could also see real, honest TRENCH lines the ... British ... of this world had thrown up on 'their' side of the border. He could see troops, and some primitive-looking artillery as well. In the distance were two of those huge airships this world used. No Hindenburg here. The US military - still recovering from having millions of troops, tons of equipment and mountains of supplies magically appear around the United States - had contained several incursions from both Canada and Mexico - though neither of those places existed anymore - and reported that the technology of this new 'British Empire' and the 'Holy Alliance' were primitive and - if intelligence was to be believed - fairly small as well. They were confident - very confident - that they could defend the country. Indeed, the planes and ships of these new powers seemed even more outclassed by the United States. They had nothing like the Fleet Carriers the US Navy had in abundance, and their surface ships were more like pre-dreadnoughts. The strange cars made it to the US side of the bridge, and were greeted by a US honor guard. Several people got out of the vehicles, and stared - at the Sherman Tanks, and slowly orbiting P-51's, and the US delegation. With a smile, Acheson strode forward. He held out his hand. "Gentlemen, good afternoon. My name is Dean Acheson, and I am the Secretary of State of the United States of America." No need to tell them that Cordell Hull had suffered a heart attack shortly after the event. The lead member of the 'British' delegation stared at the hand for a moment. Another man stepped up. "May I present His Grace, Charles Mortimer, Duke of New England." Mortimer stared at Acheson, clearly expecting something. Acheson thought for a moment, and then lowered his hand. If the Duke was expecting a bow, or a click of the heels or something, he wasn't getting it. The two looked at each other, and Acheson could feel the tension rising. It was broken from an unexpected source. "Your Grace," Edward Frederick Lindley Wood, 1st Earl of Halifax, did bow, "Please allow me to introduce myself. I am the Earl of Halifax, and His Majesty's ambassador to the United States of America." Mortimer - and the rest of the Imperial delegation looked surprised. Obviously their limited knowledge of the United States hadn't included that the ambassador would be part of the American delegation, and Acheson congratulated himself on having thought to include them. He made a mental note to do the same when meeting with this world's' other powers. Halifax continued. "Your Grace, if I may suggest that we retire to the conference rooms Mr. Acheson had been kind enough to prepare for us, we have a great deal to discuss."


	2. Introductions

**LEGAL NOTICE: THE TWO GEORGES NOVEL BELONGS TO HARRY TURTLEDOVE AND RICHARD DREYFUSS. THE FOLLOWING STORY IS MIKE TURCOTTE'S.**

* * *

The Hotel Lafayette in downtown Buffalo was the best the State Department could do on short notice. Several conference rooms had been cleaned up, and the delegations had entered one. US Marine honor guards lined the walls, and attendants were standing by as well.

Upon entering the room, the Imperial delegation immediately noticed the map. Someone had found a large National Geographic map of the world, and pinned it onto one of the walls. Several Imperials - including the Duke - spent some time studying it. Acheson and the US delegation let have them the time to study it for some time, before taking their seats.

Acheson smiled again - no reason not to be friendly yet. One of the Imperials stood.

"My name is Sir Devon Howe, and I am the representative of his Majesty's Colonial Office. I have been honored by His Grace to speak for the delegation on his behalf," Howe nodded at Mortimer, who still had not spoken.

Acheson stood. "Thank you, Sir Devon, and welcome to the United States of America." He wanted to make that plain right out. The prisoners that the US Army had taken - both from the British Empire and from whatever the 'Holy Alliance' was - had confirmed that in this world, the United States was still part of the British Empire, and that other territories were parts of other realms. Whatever the past - this was now the United States, and that would not be changing.

"Let me begin by saying that we here in the United States are as ... confused ... by the current circumstances we find ourselves in. We do not understand how this change occurred, nor why. Our operating assumption is that the ... agency ... responsible for this chose to do so for reasons beyond mere human understanding. Further, that such an activity is so far beyond the scope of human scientific understanding that even if we did have some kind of contact with that agency-" Acheson did not 'God' even though that was HIS belief - "would be pointless."

Howe cleared his throat. "So, ah I guess it would be 'Mr.'?"

Acheson nodded.

"Ah yes, Mr. Acheson, you claim that this change was not caused by you?"

"Correct, sir, I do not."

Howe nodded. "And so your scientists can offer no explanation?"

Acheson nodded again. After he became the Secretary of State, Roosevelt had briefed him on Manhattan. Acheson's mind had reeled back at the implications of such a weapon, and he and the others in the briefing had wondered if the work being done at Los Alamos were somehow responsible. It seemed impossible, but that word no longer had the meaning it used to.

"No sir, they can not." Acheson gave a wry grin. "So it seems that we are stuck with each other."

Howe nodded. "And - ah - Mr. - Acheson, I am given to understand that you are the senior diplomat of - ah - the United States of America?"

Acheson nodded. He wasn't sure why the 'Mr.' part of the equation was causing any issues.

Acheson nodded again. "I am. As Secretary of State, I report directly to the President."

It was Howe's turn to nod. "Very well. Please understand that this is new territory, as it were for us. I am used to treating with men of quality."

Acheson's ears burned for a second before he realized that 'quality' in this context wasn't a statement about his worth, but about his lack of a title. On second thought, maybe it was a statement about his worth.

"You do not deal with Republics, then?" Acheson asked.

A small shrug. "Republican governments have had no place here."

"They do now". Acheson let a little steel into his voice, and looked at Mortimer, not Howe.

"If you would be so kind, Mr. Acheson," Howe continued, without acknowledging the slight, "could you please tell us how the United States came to be? You must have heard that until this ... event ... this territory was part of the King-Emperor's domain; indeed this area belonged to His Grace." Howe nodded at Mortimer.

Acheson nodded; the question had been expected. He turned to two aides, who set up an board with some hastily brought together maps.

"It seems that our histories diverged in the 1770s. Starting in the 1760s, a series of acts were passed by Parliament in London which imposed taxes on the American colonies..."

* * *

After two hours, his throat a bit raw, Acheson stopped speaking. The Imperial delegation had been largely silent, absorbing what they heard. There had been one question from a delegate, which Mortimer had cut off instantly with a mild wave of his hand. The Imperials had been especially intent when Acheson had reached the more recent history of WWI and WWII. Pictures - carefully chosen by the State Department - showed picture of the King visiting with Roosevelt in 1939, pictures of Pearl Harbor, then the US Pacific Fleet massed off of Ulithi (now mysteriously congregated off of San Francisco), and various US warplanes, the Empire State Building, the Panama Canal, the Golden Gate Bridge, and Roosevelt and Churchill with Stalin at Tehran.

Howe spoke. "Thank you, Mr. Acheson, for your brief. I would be so kind, we'd like to take a brief recess to discuss what you have told us."

Acheson nodded. "Of course. If we were to meet again, in say three hours, to continue, would that be acceptable?"

Howe nodded. "Yes".

Acheson turned to the State Department aides. "Please show the Duke's delegation to the rooms that we have prepared for them."

As the delegates filed out, Halifax spoke to Howe. "Perhaps I might join you, and speak with his Grace?"

Howe glanced at Mortimer, who gave an almost imperceptible nod. Howe smiled. "Of course, My Lord, we'd be honored."

* * *

 **Transcriber's** **notes: now with 90% less word vomit!**


	3. Processing

**LEGAL NOTICE: THE TWO GEORGES NOVEL BELONGS TO HARRY TURTLEDOVE AND RICHARD DREYFUSS. THE FOLLOWING STORY IS MIKE TURCOTTE'S.**

* * *

The rooms provided by the State Department were comfortable, and had air conditioning. Air conditioning was something the Imperials evidently didn't have; they were fascinated by it.

Halifax sat on a comfortable sofa in front of a coffee table. Howe, Mortimer, and the rest of the Imperials gathered around the table in preparation for the imminent discussion.

Howe spoke. "I understand you were - perhaps are - the British ambassador to ... these people?"

Halifax nodded. "Yes, appointed by Prime Minister Churchill. The United States are our most important ally." He made sure that the last word was clear.

"You treat with a former colony?" Howe seemed surprised.

Halifax looked up. "The events of the American revolution are 150 years in the past. While there has been turbulence from time to time, we have generally had positive relations with the United States." He sat back. "Our world is different than yours. There are many, many more independent countries, especially in the Americas, and most of them at least call themselves republics."

"And why is the United States Britain's most important ally?"

Howe asked. Halifax gave a Gallic shrug. "Because of their economic power and military might. In our world, they were the most powerful nation."

That clearly didn't sit well with the Imperials. Mortimer spoke. "But it is apparent from the atlases that you have that the British Empire is far larger - even without this United States - and has more people."

Halifax looked up. "Your Grace, the United States has 150 million people - more, I understand, than lived in this area prior to the event."

Howe nodded. "Far more, but that doesn't address His Grace's question - why was your British Empire weaker?"

"My point is, " Halifax continued, "that while the Empire is larger, only Britain itself - and to a lesser extent the white dominions - have any degree of industrialization or economic power. The rest of the Empire is engaged in barely-above subsistence farming."

"White Dominions?" asked Howe.

"Yes - like Australia or Canada - those areas settled by white European Christians."

Dead silence greeted Halifax. "You discriminate on the basis on skin color?" asked Howe.

Halifax reluctantly nodded. "Some do."

Looks of distaste from the Imperials, though Halifax noted that all of them were white males.

Howe spoke again. "What will the United States want?"

Halifax sat back, glad to be off the topic of ethnicity. "Well, first and foremost, they will want recognition as a sovereign, independent state."

More grimaces from the Imperials. "So they would not acknowledge the sovereignty of His Majesty?"

Halifax straightened. "They will not. Under any circumstances. While the United States and Britain were allies - friends even - under no circumstances would they acknowledge a monarch - any monarch." Halifax reached down, opened his briefcase, removed several manila folders, and looked Mortimer in the eye, causing a stir from the Imperials."Nor should you try to force them." He spread out the folders and removed some pictures provided by the US Navy and US Army Air Force. "Tell me, Your Grace, do these pictures represent the current state of your military art?" Howe stepped up with an angry look, but Mortimer stilled him with a raised hand. He glanced at the pictures,then at Halifax. "And if they do?"

Halifax gave a small smile. "Then you are so outclassed it is laughable." Halifax removed some photos from another file and handed it to the Duke. The Duke, never taking his eyes off of Halifax, handed the pictures to another man. Mortimer spoke. "This is Jeremy Styles, Earl of Portsmouth, one of my vassals. The Earl spent most of his career in the Royal Navy, before his older brother's untimely death left him with the title. Your opinion, Earl Styles?"

Styles was looking at the picture. "USS Iowa, " he said and then looked down at the facts. The British Embassy in Washington DC had prepared a fact sheet on the Iowa, mass, speed, range, armament. He frowned in concentration, and the his eyes widened slightly. "Is this correct?"

Halifax nodded. "And I gave you that because it is easier to understand than this." Halifax handed him another picture, which Styles goggled at it. "What the devil - USS Essex. Apart from the English name, what is it?" "An Aircraft Carrier." Halifax nodded at the picture Styles held. "It can carry 100 of the airplanes that you've seen." "What do they use it for?" Styles frowned for a moment. "I suppose you could use the planes for scouting other ships." "No, the Americans use it for killing other ships. With torpedo bombers and other aircraft" Halifax shrugged. "They have two dozen of those, and if this -" Halifax held up a picture of HMS Agincourt, a British Battleship that looked like it was from the 1880s - complete with masts in case the steam engines quit - "is what you have the Americans will sweep you off the oceans in short order, and with very little effort."

Styles looked ready to protest, and while it was clear he hadn't yet grasped the implications of the Essex, the Iowa was clear enough. Halifax tapped the paper in front of him. "The Americans built the largest military anyone has ever seen to wage a global war. They have an immense navy, enormous air force, huge army, and the industrial might and technical knowledge to sustain and even expand it if they must. They are decades ahead of you, and will not hesitate to crush anyone threatening them. If you fight, I daresay you will be able to do little more than annoy them."

Halifax sighed. "We were on the verge of invading France when this happened - an immense logistical undertaking. The Americans have historically not been this well-armed, but now..." Halifax let it linger. There was an uncomfortable silence. Mortimer have a shadow of a smile. "Well, that didn't sound good, but I must say the idea of invading France has a certain appeal." There were chuckles from the Imperials, and Halifax found himself grinning as well. "It wasn't to fight the French, it was to fight the Germans." he said. "Although, God knows, dealing with that French bastard DeGaulle made me see red." More laughter. "It seems, Lord Halifax," Mortimer said, "That dealing with the French is poisonous whichever version of Earth one finds himself on." Halifax boomed out a laugh. "Your Grace, I can not disagree." Mortimer let the laughter die down, and regarded Halifax once more. "And if our attacking them if not an option, should we be worried by what they might do to us?"

That question killed the levity in the room. Halifax thought for a moment before answering. "I would think not," he said carefully. "It seems that the event brought all of their lands here. They are not expansionist in the territorial sense, though I wouldn't trust them when it comes to the New World. They have no sympathy for empire, however." Howe spoke again."This event has hurt us, My Lord, badly. "Our enemies - primarily the Holy Alliance - may seek to exploit this weakness before we can recover."

Halifax regarded Howe for a moment. "Are you asking if the Americans would intervene on your behalf?" Another non-answer from the Duke. "And if we are?" Halifax frowned. "Then I would say you have set yourself a most difficult task. The Americans are historically non-interventionist, indeed, they got into the war we came from after only the most egregious provocation." "But you have worked with them for years now, my Lord?" Mortimer asked. Halifax nodded. "Then perhaps you can help us chart a way forward." Mortimer said.

Halifax nodded - this was going as well as he could have hoped.


	4. Debate

**LEGAL NOTICE: THE TWO GEORGES NOVEL IS THE PROPERTY OF HARRY TURTLEDOVE AND RICHARD DREYFUSS. THE STORY IS WRITTEN BY MIKE TURCOTTE. ENJOY.**

* * *

 _ **September 14, 1944**_

The sudden arrival of 'The United States of America' had thrown the world into what might have charitably been called a state of confusion. The British Empire-THE premier power on the globe-had suffered an immense blow, the impacts of which were becoming more apparent every day – and that was causing global security challenges as other powers considered what to make of the wounded lion of Albion.

Economically, the disruptions were worse. British North America had accounted for as well as provided immense amounts of trade, from manufactured goods to raw materials to food. That such a large segment of the global economy had been removed had severe impacts on the British Empire, yes, but others were not immune. The Holy Alliance's territories in the New World–despite Catholic edicts against dealing with 'heretics' – had enjoyed extensive and lucrative trade both above and below board with British North America. Most of that trade simply vanished; indeed, some parts of the Holy Alliance were now struggling to feed themselves. All of this was also impacted by the great unknown: what this 'United States of America' actually was. Within weeks, it became common knowledge that the 'Americans' as they called themselves had some impressive LOOKING technology; how those looks translated into actual power was unknown, although naval officers of all countries could not help but impressed by something like USS IOWA. Additionally, the Americans – still recovering from their own shock at the new world they found themselves in – had made it clear that if they got the recognition they were prepared to trade with other powers. That would solve many of the problems the Holy Alliance was having – and from the goods that seemed to be available, would be very lucrative as well.

* * *

In Paris, the mood was cautiously optimistic. Under the guise of a royal wedding, the French King and Spanish Emperor met with their advisors. The Holy Alliance had been forged in the mid-19th Century as the only possible way for France and Spain to counter the enormous juggernaut that was the British Empire, and even then the partners simply could not bring enough to bear to engage the British in open battle. Of course, that was before the British had lost most of North America.

The Marquis De Rochefort glanced over the crowded room. Since the meeting was in Paris, the language was French, and for that, Rochefort was glad; his Spanish-something all the French nobility had to know due to the importance of the Holy Alliance- was passable but not what anyone could fluent. Both the French King and the Spanish Emperor were present, and Rochefort shivered at the sight of both of them. The French King was almost 80 years old and was in poor health, with a mind rapidly descending into age-related dementia. Given that even when the King was young that mind had been, at best...not impressive, it was an already bad situation made Spanish Emperor, on the other hand, was young, energetic, and fairly bright. At 24 he still had some of the callowness of youth, but he was rapidly maturing. He was handsome, recently married to the daughter of a French Duke, and by all accounts was a good husband and temperate in his affairs. Unfortunately, he burned with a religious fervor unseen since the Inquisition; and there were rumors he was trying to bring it back to ensure the 'Sanctity of Spain's Soul'. Rochefort shuddered at that thought. The last thing already-backwards Spain needed was MORE religion. It was never stated –publicly at least– but for all the public posturing about an Alliance of two Equals united under God, the simple fact was that France was the far stronger 'partner'. French industry and technical achievement far eclipsed Spain's, and if Spain reverted to an even more religious state that disparity was likely to grow. But France needed Spain's manpower, imperial territory, raw materials, and, Rochefort admitted to himself, its' fervor to compete with the British. Alone, France never could have done it. France couldn't, even with the Spanish.

Rochefort turned his attention back to the meeting. A Spanish general -Pedro Alvarez, Count of Toledo was speaking. Rochefort noted that this general who had never been in battle, commanded men, or left mainland Europe for that matter was now dispensing some carefully thought out words of wisdom. "The time to strike is now! The British have almost no forces in the New World. The Caribbean sugar islands, the dye manufactories, and their great naval base at Jamaica are ours for the taking!" Alvarez slapped his hand down the table to emphasize his point, and got admiring looks from others. There were some scowls too, however, both from the French and some Spaniards. "They still outweigh us at sea," said a Spanish Admiral. Rochefort noted him as the Duke of Darien, from the New World, and a 'professional' according the French Admiralty, which was about the highest compliment the French military paid to anyone–even their Alliance partners–who weren't French. The duke continued. "Their Caribbean fleet was always the strongest of their New World naval forces, and Kingston was not impacted by this … event. Further, their other main Atlantic naval base in the New World is Halifax-also intact." Alvarez wasn't finished. "But they've lost New York and Charleston – those were huge bases – and they have almost no ground troops available." Nods from the table. The duke nodded. "Yes, they are hurt. And, in the long run, they've lost too much of their infrastructure to sustain the forces they do have in place. However, for now, they remain as potent as ever." The Emperor spoke, and Rochefort looked up surprised. The Emperor rarely spoke at meeting like this. "Does not his most Catholic Majesty see the event as God's Will, striking a blow at His Faithful's mortal enemy? If we do not act upon this event, we risk displeasing the Almighty." The Emperor looked not at the drooling, semi-conscious French King, but at Rochefort. Internally, Rochefort sighed. Being the King's...Prime Minister for lack of a better term, though Rochefort thought more of himself as a regent, was for the most part extremely satisfying. He had the power and prestige to command the mighty French state, and woe unto any who might oppose him. There were downsides too. Constant intrigue at the court as others sought Rochefort's position. Treating with the King's idiot eldest son who was trying to take power for himself. Trying hard NOT to wish that the King's younger (and much more capable) son had been born first. And, of course, dealing with a fanatical young Spanish Emperor.

Rochefort sat forward in his seat. "His Most Catholic Majesty agrees wholeheartedly with that sentiment." He said, nodding at the Emperor. Indeed, Rochefort, never the most religious person himself, did as well. What other being than God could have done this? "And yes, he views it as an opportunity to strike at our enemy. However, our own military assessment matches that of his Grace," Rochefort nodded at Darien,"That for now they are too strong to oppose directly. They have been hurt, and we should prepare to strike them, but we must do so with careful planning and foresight. Else we risk wasting God's great gift to us." There were more nods at this. The military of the Holy Alliance was keen to come to grips with the British, but only after the...ripples of the event...had finished weakening them. The Spanish general wasn't finished. "And what of this new country, this..United States?" asked Alvarez. "Should we not reclaim what is rightfully ours from this REPUBLIC?" The last word came out almost as a curse. Rochefort answered. "They have been in contact with us over radio." The room stilled at the mention of the secret long range communication technology. "They claim to desire the establishment of diplomatic relations with us." A snort-this time from a Frenchman. Rochefort glanced down at him – and recognized the Duke of Algiers, a man almost as backward as the Spanish. "Diplomacy? With a republic-with former British colonists-with peasants?!" That last word was spat. "We can not treat with them! They have seized our lands as well!" Rochefort tried not grimace. The relatively small slice of northern New Spain that had been...not seized but ...'replaced' by the United States had been virtually uninhabited and was of no real value other than as a border with British North America. It certainly did not compare to the vast green verdant continent that the British had lost. Algiers continued. "And that canal in Darien! That is our land too." Nods again, and Rochefort found himself agreeing. The dream of linking the Atlantic and Pacific via a canal had tempted French engineers for decades. To find that this Republic had done it was...disturbing. Rochefort had read the reports of what the Americans called the 'Panama' canal and it's huge size and wondrous locks. The economic and strategic benefits of such a construct were obvious and vast. Alvarez slammed a fist down on the table. "I think we should seize that canal at once!" A growl of affirmation ran around the room, and the Spanish Emperor nodded. Even the French King perked up.

One voice dissented however. "Then you are a fool, general."

The room quieted immediately as everyone turned to the man dressed in the...not quite...French uniform. Alvarez was sputtering. "Who is this insolent individual?" The general was almost purple with rage, especially as the stranger continued to look at him calmly. Rochefort spoke. "Your Majesties, my Lords, please allow me to introduce Captain Pierre Renault, of the French Army." Confused looks all around greeted both the Captain and Rochefort. The uniform the Captain was wearing was not correct for the French Royal Army. Rochefort continued. "Captain Renault was in the United States when the...event...occurred, and was brought here to our world with them, but he was from their France." There were gasps at this as the assemblage turned back and studied the Captain. Rochefort was smiled internally; he had scored yet another coup in getting one of the Americans here; that the 'American' in question was actually French was even better. Rochefort had been contacted by certain...agents...of his within the British government. Rochefort knew that the British were talking to the Americans in Lower Canada; it had been made known that there were Frenchmen in the United States as well. With some complicated political maneuvering, Rochefort had managed to guarantee the safety of a French military officer if that officer would come to France. Captain Renault was the result. Of course what Captain Renault had to say about the history of France in the world the United States had come from was deeply disturbing to Rochefort. And while Rochefort had cautioned the man to be…circumspect…in his dealings with the various members of the nobility Renault had discreetly met, his…republican tendencies…were clear.

Alvarez was viewing the Captain with anger."Why do you say I am a fool?" Rochefort was glad the fool statement had not been directed at either King or Emperor; Renault would have lost his head for sure then. As it was, Rochefort was going to have to expend some effort to protect him from Alvarez. Renault spoke clearly. "Since I have arrived here, his Grace" -Renault nodded at Rochefort and Rochefort was glad the Captain had retained enough of his hasty education in French court protocol to maintain everyone's dignity–"has been good enough to provide me access to–ah-Alliance military bases." Renault gave a classic Gallic shrug. "I have no doubt that the men of the Alliance are brave and that the officers are intelligent. However, gentlemen, please believe me when I tell you this: You have no power to fight the United States. If you try, they will crush you." Silence greeted that statement. "Why do you say that? " asked nodded at some aides lining the walls. They started handing out copies of documents that Renault had brought with him from Washington DC, the US capitol. Rochefort had been amazed the Americans had let Renault leave with such detailed information about military capabilities, and been more amazed to learn that they had helped him compile it and sent it on to France with their blessings. Apparently, France and the United States had been allies in the world they had come from. And, if this is what the Americans would allow them to see, how much worse was the information they DID keep secret?

The assemblage studied the documents. Rochefort noted that Darien in particular was frowning at the pictures of US naval vessels. Rochefort gave them a few minutes to read what they had, and then nodded at Renault. "What you there, My Lords, is a sampling of American military capabilities. I will tell you that it is accurate. Renault stood and tapped a large picture of the French Battleship Toulon which had been pinned to the wall. "This ship, I am told, is the pride of the French Navy. It is your most powerful. It is claimed that it is the equal- or better-of anything the British in your world have." Another shrug. "That may be true, but I tell you this – the Americans could sink it instantly if they choose. They would do so with aircraft and bombs you can't imagine." Renault studied the picture. "In our world, we had ships like that 60 years ago. It is beyond obsolete – to the United States Navy it is a floating tomb." Grumbles at this, but Rochefort noted that Darien didn't seem particularly surprised by this. Rochefort smiled internally to himself; obviously the good Spanish Admiral had been cultivating contacts of his own. Captain Renault continued. "In my world, the deceive tool of military warfare was the airplane." As Renault was speaking, Rochefort's aides were putting more pictures on the walls. "This is what the Americans call a B-29 Superfortress. It is capable of flying here from a base in the Atlantic, like the Azores should the Americans choose to seize, or from Britain, if the Americans ally with them, dropping thousands of pounds of explosive on Paris, and then flying back. The Americans have thousands of military aircraft – literally thousands, and you have naught but airships to oppose them." Renault smiled coldly. "A conflict between you and the Americans would not be a war. It would be murder." Dead silence greeted Renault's remarks, and Rochefort internally congratulated himself on getting the man here. An aristocrat to the core, he despised what Renault was, and the France the man represented, but he couldn't deny the impact of the information he brought.

The Emperor turned to Rochefort. "So does His Most Catholic Majesty's government recommend that we do nothing?" Rochefort smiled. Time to drop the other bomb. "Not all, your Majesty. I believe the advice of your subject the Duke of Darien is correct. We wait for the British to weaken and then strike." Alvarez growled. "And these Americans? We do nothing here? These are pretty pictures, but this man" -Alvarez nodded harshly at Renault– "could be lying to us."Rochefort's smile turned shark-like. "Not at all, My Lord. In fact, it seems the Lord has dropped another opportunity at our feet." Alvarez looked up. "Oh?" Rochefort spoke. "I have heard from certain agents of mine in St. Petersburg. It seems the Tsar is...most unhappy...with this situation." Almost everyone looked confused at sudden change from Britain and America to Russia. Rochefort continued. "It seems that our Eastern friend the Tsar is furious about the loss of Alaska to the United States. It too was replaced by the event." The loss of the temperate part of British North America had occupied everyone's minds. It was known that the United States also possessed Alaska, but hardly anyone lived there. "That frozen wasteland? Why does he care about Alaska? He still has plenty of frozen wasteland in Siberia." The Emperor's remarks generated some spontaneous laughter from the group. Rochefort allowed himself a small grin. "My agents are still working the reason for the Tsar's outrage" which was diplo-speak for I haven't got the foggiest damn idea of why the Tsar cares so much – "but I have been able to determine that the Tsar has directed his military to retake Alaska from the Americans." Alvarez leaned back, thoughtful, and the Emperor exchanged a look with Darien. One to watch, that one, thought Rochefort, looking at Darien. "So we don't need to take the good Captain at his word. We'll simply watch what happens with this Russian expedition. And if the Americans prove to be a paper tiger, well then, then we can," Rochefort smiled,"rethink our policies." A growl of affirmation. Rochefort smiled. Always better to get someone else to do the dying.


	5. Tension

**LEGAL NOTICE: THE TWO GEORGES NOVEL BELONGS TO HARRY TURTLEDOVE AND RICHARD DREYFUSS. THE FOLLOWING STORY IS MIKE TURCOTTE'S.**

* * *

 _ **September 16, 1944  
**_  
To say he was tense would have been an understatement. Perhaps THE understatement of his life. However, over six decades of life, four of which were spent in the foreign service served Hakushaku Toshimi Nakayama well. No trace of nervousness or anxiety was visible on his face or in his manner as he stepped off of the gangplank and on the pier in Manila.

That he was in Manila at all was of course a shock, a Japanese-controlled Manila at that was even more so. Even if the 'Japanese' in control of Manila were ... not from his Japan. While all in Japan had heard of the ... event ... that had sundered the British Empire and replaced parts of it with a new polity called 'The United States of America' - a republic of all things - had, of course, been deeply surprising to all in Japan. That this 'United States' seemed technologically advanced and very powerful was also surprising; indeed Japanese naval attaches in London had already communicated some specifications on American naval ships that were disturbing. Nakayama was no naval man, but he recognized that the United States certainly seemed powerful.

Of course, not even the pictures of the ships had been as surprising as learning that this new, powerful United States had been at war with it's version of Japan. It was difficult to define that war; the technology and global great powers were very different, but it seemed clear from what the Japanese embassy in London had learned, that Japan was losing that war, and losing badly. A look at the map of the world the United States had come from had set Tokyo's elite afire with speculation - what on Earth possessed the Japan of that world to try and fight this United States, the British, and China AT THE SAME TIME? And, apparently to have an adverse relationship with Russia as well (or was it the Soviet Union - no one in Japan was clear on what this 'Soviet Union' might be). Apparently, the Japan of that world had seized the Philippines, and it, like the other possessions of this United States, had been transited to this world. But now, Japan had learned - through the British again - that the United States was planning on resuming its' attacks to retake the Philippines, and so, well, Japan's foreign minister was here. As he stepped off the ship, a 'Japanese' army band rendered him honors, and the Japanese men in the not-quite Japanese uniforms saluted him. He returned the courtesy, and faced the man at head of the 'Japanese' delegation. Nakayama dispensed with the usual protocol - for one, he had no idea of what protocol was here. Once the music stopped, he simply stepped and spoke. "My name is Hakushaku Toshimi Nakayama, and I have the privilege of being the Emperor's Foreign Secretary." The man in the uniform stared for a moment, and then straightened. "My name is General Tokuyuma Yamashita, senior military commander of his Imperial Majesty's armed forces in the Philippines." There was more to that statement than simple fact. Yamashita had arrived in the Philippines the day before the event in June, and only consolidated his control during the chaos in the days immediately afterward. Sadly, not without casualties. "I am most pleased to meet you, General. Perhaps we adjourn to someplace to talk? I fear we have much to discuss."


	6. Hard Facts

**LEGAL NOTICE: THE TWO GEORGES NOVEL BELONGS TO HARRY TURTLEDOVE AND RICHARD DREYFUSS. THE FOLLOWING STORY IS MIKE TURCOTTE'S.**

* * *

If the mood in Paris had been, if not gleeful, then at least optimistic, the mood in London was correspondingly grim.

In a small but still elegant room near Parliament, the leaders of the British Empire met. Charles Mortimer was there, and the august company he was in meant that he would be personally speaking, although the meeting was chaired by His Grace Robert Russell, Duke of Bedford, and Prime Minister of King-Emperor George IX's government. Earl Halifax – although he had no idea of yet of whether he was actually still Earl of anything – was there as a personal 'guest' of Mortimer, who had all but begged the Ambassador to accompany him to London. The US Congress had passed a law – surprisingly quickly - granting permanent residency in the United States to anyone from the old world, regardless of prior status. That had relieved the Earl to no end; there were literally hundreds of thousands of displaced persons in the United States; that their legal status had been clarified was good.

London had been surprising to the Earl. He remembered the grim, coal-choked, dim, and crowded metropolis of his youth, and was surprised to find London bright (well, as bright as its latitude and the pea soup fogs allowed), clean, if still smudged here and there with coal dust, and confident. Halifax also noted that far more non-white faces in London, and some of those were in positions of power. Finally, Halifax noted that there were simply fewer factories than he was used to, and fewer than he imagined had existed in the London of 1895 (even though it was 1944 in this world as well, 1895 seemed to be about the level of technical development) on his world.

There was a large table in the room, and on it, under a bright light was a map of the Western Hemisphere. Halifax had stared long and hard at the unfamiliar internal political boundaries and city names of the map, and someone had hastily – but fairly accurately - drawn the borders of the United States on it. Halifax noted large anchor symbols – he guessed those represented naval bases – at Halifax, Charleston (now gone) and Kingston Jamaica. Smaller symbols at what was now San Francisco and (still was) Vancouver were on the Pacific Coast. Mortimer was speaking. "As I said in my report, the United States clearly has military technology and size far in excess of our own. Their manufactures, in particular in regards to both ground and air-based motorized transport are completely different than ours; they use refined oil called 'gasoline' in almost everything, whereas we reserve that for our capital naval vessels and for our larger airships. In particular, privately held 'automobiles' convey upon the American common man mobility that we can gawk at. Finally, and perhaps most shocking, the mechanical airplanes of theirs convey an advantage in combat that we simply cannot match."

"One wonders if you are suggesting we simply surrender to them." This from the Duke of Ceylon, slouched insouciantly in a chair, idly examining the brim of the NY Yankees baseball hat he'd borrowed from Halifax. Mortimer drew in an exasperated breath. "Not at all, Sanji. For one thing, they don't seem to want to attack us – yet. I will defer to my guest for that." Mortimer said looking at Halifax. Halifax took that as his cue. "His Grace is correct. My own contacts in the government, both within the White House and on the Hill suggest that the Americans are planning no action against us – err, you." Russell spoke. "The White House? The Hill?" Halifax answered. "Your pardon, your Grace. The White House – in fact a large white mansion – is the official residence of the US President, for now Franklin Roosevelt." Ceylon interrupted. Halifax was getting the impression that the young duke was the enfant terrible of this particular group. "A Dutchman?" Halifax gave a half-nod. "Not really. His ancestors were Dutch – from the Hudson River valley in New York. He has no particular affinity for Holland, if that is a concern." Ceylon nodded. Russell continued. "For now?" "There will be an election for President in about two months. The embassy's – that is the British Embassy's – prediction is that Roosevelt will win. However, his health isn't good, so we are also focused on Harry Truman." Russell looked confused. "Who? And why have the United States called for an election?"

Halifax answered, "The American government doesn't call elections. They are mandated in their Constitution to so. Every four years, in the first Tuesday in November, they have an election for President. Even given the … strangeness … of the current circumstances, the US election will occur." Halifax took a breath and nodded at Mortimer. "As his Grace explained, the US federal government has three components; Executive, as represented by the President, Legislative, as represented by their Congress – that was 'the Hill' I referred to earlier - and Judicial, represented by the Supreme Court. The important thing is that the executive, or President, is the Commander-in-Chief of the US Armed Forces. Should the President die while in office, he is succeeded by his Vice President, who is elected at the same time. The Vice President has very little to do officially unless the President dies. The current Vice President is Henry Wallace, but because of political difficulties in Roosevelt's political party, he was replaced on the ticket by Harry Truman." Russell had been following Halifax's talk. "And this Harry Truman – what is he like?" Halifax grimaced. "We don't have much information on him. He is a Senator – that is a member of the senior house of the American Congress – but from a small town in a Midwestern state – Missouri."

Halifax sighed. _Might as well get it out now_. "Prior to his political career he was a hat salesman."

The room froze. Eyes bulged, mouths fell open. Ceylon grinned. "Do you mean that he sold …"he lifted the Yankees hat slightly. Halifax nodded. "He owned a small haberdashery in a small town in Missouri." Russell continued. "And you mean to tell us that this man – this hat seller Truman – might become the leader of the United States?" Halifax nodded. "President, yes. And, as the President of the United States, the most powerful man in the world."

Again, the room froze. Several were shaking their heads in frank amazement; several others were staring at the map.

Russell seemed to deflate. Halifax couldn't help but compare him to Churchill, and found him lacking. Oh, it wasn't that Russell was a bad man, or dim. He seemed bright and level-headed enough. But he lacked Winston's fire – and the spark that had made him great. Halifax simply couldn't imagine him roaring defiance at Hitler in July of 1940 as Winston had. Or forging the great Atlantic Alliance that had been poised to sweep Nazism and Japanese aggression from the world. _These people have been on top for so long that they simply can't comprehend a threat to their Empire, thought Halifax. Now, they've got two – the United States, and this French/Spanish alliance. And if the United States isn't a direct military threat, it certainly is in many, many other ways._ Halifax glanced over at Ceylon – or more accurately at Ceylon's brown face. He was clearly a native of the island of his dukedom. _Of course, maybe the United States has something to learn from them as well._

Russell recovered. "Very well," he said. "The internal political situation in this United States is not for us to worry about right now. If … the Earl … is correct, they are not a threat, and if they were, there would be precious little we could do about it. So, let us concern ourselves with the here and now. What is our situation in the New World? Sea Lord?" A man in a splendid naval uniform spoke. "This even caused some damage to our direct physical position. We … seem to have misplaced … two protected cruisers and some torpedo boats that were in New York. Additionally, an older cruiser was in New Liverpool. However, the vast majority of our Atlantic-based fleets are intact in Halifax and Jamaica, and our fleets; Home Fleet at Plymouth and Scapa Flow, the Mediterranean fleets at Gibraltar and Malta, and our Indian and Pacific forces are intact." There were nods around the room. As with 'his' Britain, Halifax noted, this Britain's first concern was sea power. The Sea Lord continued, more grimly. "We do have issues, however. Neither Kingston nor Halifax has anything like the stores to supply the forces both-land and sea-that they do have. We face a logistical nightmare." Russell spoke. "Where did the supplies for our bases come from originally?" The Sea Lord shrugged. "British North America, of course." Tight expressions. Mortimer spoke. "What do you recommend?" The Sea Lord sighed. "We must redeploy the bulk of our sea forces to bases that we can supply. Eventually – meaning a year or two, we can build a logistical support network to support the New World. Until then …" he drew some papers out of a briefcase. "My staff has analyzed the situation, and made the following recommendations. We believe that 5 squadrons, consisting of two battleships with-" "Your pardon, My Lord," Mortimer politely interrupted. "I don't mean to be rude, but in broad terms, what percentage of forces does your proposal recommend … redeploying?" "Around eighty-percent of the naval tonnage, and perhaps fifty-percent of the army garrisons." Mortimer immediately turned to Russell. "My Lord, my agents in both Paris and Madrid have reported certain unsettling facts to me. Our … logistical difficulties … are known to the Alliance. They have anticipated that we might be forced to do something like this, and are planning to strike." Halifax noted Mortimer's use of 'my agents'. Clearly the Duke had position in the British government beyond that of mere great lord. There were in-drawn breaths, and Russell pursed his lips. "So we can't supply the forces we have deterring the Alliance, and if we move them, we may lose the Caribbean. Does that sum it up?" Glumly, the Sea Lord and Mortimer nodded.

"My Lord, if I may interject?" Halifax said politely. Mortimer glanced at Halifax with surprise, clearly having forgotten the 'Earl'. "Yes?" he said abruptly. "Might I inquire as to what – in broad terms – you require to keep these bases operating?" The Sea Lord glanced at Halifax, and then at Russell. Russell thought for a minute, and then nodded at the Sea Lord. "Coal, mostly. Also food. Spare parts – though we can get by for a while." Halifax nodded; he suspected as much. "Might I suggest an alternative solution? One that will allow you to maintain your bases and deter this Holy Alliance?" Russell leaned forward. "By all means, Earl Halifax, please enlighten us." Halifax spoke. "The United States has mountains of coal and food. With very little effort, they could provide your bases with all they need to keep operating." The Sea Lord frowned. "I doubt it. We have dozens of ships and thousands of troops in Kingston alone-" Halifax interrupted. "Your pardon my Lord, but I do not think you understand the economy of scale the United States can manage. In my world, they supplied millions – that's thousands of thousands – of Soviet - err - Russian soldiers fighting in the Eastern front. They did so over thousands of miles of ocean and land. In the Pacific, they were projecting enough power to hammer Japan in it's own backyard." Halifax shrugged. "Supplying a few dozen of your ships and a few thousand of your men over a mere three hundred miles of ocean? That's not just doable for them, it is … trivial." Stares all around. Mortimer narrowed his eyes at Halifax, but it was Ceylon who spoke. "And they would supply ships that could be a threat to them? We have no relations with this United States." "No. But as I've stated – repeatedly – your ships are not a threat to them. By now the Americans have overflown your bases, and know exactly what is there. The Americans view your ships with … amusement … if at all. I say this not to belittle you or your men, but simply as a statement of fact." The Sea Lord's face reddened and he moved to speak, but was cut off by Mortimer. "And what will the Americans demand in return for this?"

Halifax shrugged again. "Some kind of exchange rate will have to be worked out. I wouldn't think about the cost in terms of money however; I am confident that you can work something out there. No, the real price of this will be diplomatic."

"Recognition." Mortimer almost spat the world. Halifax nodded. "Yes." The Sea Lord recovered enough to speak. "That doesn't matter. We can't rely on this. Even if these … Americans … can come to terms with us, we would be relying on foreigners to supply our most critical New World bases. What happens when the Alliance sinks an American merchant ship carrying coal to Jamaica? Then we lose our logistical support."

Nods all around, but Halifax interrupted. "No, My Lord, you do not. In that case, should the Alliance be-to be blunt,stupid enough to do that, then you win. Because if they do, the United States will flatten them." "They would go to war over this?" asked Russell. "Yes, my lord. They did in our world when the Nazis – that is the Germans – attacked their merchant shipping. Against a soft and easy opponent like this Alliance, they would swat them down." "Soft and easy?" scoffed the Sea Lord. "I think you underestimate…"

"You haven't fought a major war in more than a century, your ships are antiquated by US standards, your tactics outmoded, your ground forces lack armor, motorized logistics or real artillery, you have no air power to speak of, and you – meaning you and the Alliance together are outnumbered in terms of serving military forces and out-weighted economically." Halifax sighed. "I am sorry to be so blunt, but you don't seem to be hearing what I have been telling you. You need to understand that neither you nor the Alliance pose a threat to the United States. And by pose a threat, what I really mean is you barely register." Russell forestalled a response with a raised hand. "So we treat with them?" "Yes." Halifax said. "It would be useful to see this … miraculous … military power you speak of in action." Ceylon said, still fingering the Yankees hat. "When the Americans finally mount an expedition to retake the Philippines, you will, " said Halifax. "We won't have to wait that long," said Mortimer. "I have it on good authority that the Tsar is … most unhappy … about the loss of Alaska to the United States. He has ordered his military to seize it." Halifax spoke. "I hadn't heard this." From the expressions in the room, it seemed few had. Mortimer continued with a self-satisfied smile. "Yes, they are moving. I can't say why the Tsar is so … angry … about Alaska, but he is. Tell me Earl, will the United States defend Alaska?" "Most assuredly, your Grace." "Then we will see for ourselves this power. In the meantime, I would pose to you, Prime Minister, that we should adopt the Earl's recommendation." At the startled looks he shrugged.

"The United States is here, My Lords. We may not like it – I certainly do not, but we must face facts." Mortimer turned to a picture of a B-29 bomber that Halifax had brought. 'Especially when the 'Facts' in question are armed with those."


	7. Discovery

**LEGAL NOTICE: THE TWO GEORGES NOVEL BELONGS TO HARRY TURTLEDOVE AND RICHARD DREYFUSS. THE FOLLOWING STORY IS MIKE TURCOTTE'S.**

* * *

 ** _September 24, 1944_** _ **  
**_  
If the mood in Paris had been optimistic, and the mood in London had been grim, then the mood in Tokyo was, frankly, abysmal.

The Emperor's Privy Council was meeting to discuss the situation with the United States, and there was very little positive to say. The Emperor himself sat at the head of the table, though he was not expected to participate. It was clear – to the men in the room at least – that if the reports from the Americans were true (and given that they'd been confirmed by other powers from that world, Tokyo believed them) then Japan's situation ranged from potentially dire to frankly catastrophic. While the United States had been at war with 'Germany' as well as Japan, the 'Nazis' (it was understood that was another name for 'Germans' in that world) hadn't occupied any US territory.

Unfortunately, Japan had occupied US territory;two areas in particular - Guam and the Philippines.

Present in the meeting was Foreign Secretary Toshimi Nakayama, and he was briefing the group. The tones were low, the clothes very formal, and the setting beautiful. It seemed ill-mannered of him to sully the image with the mundane of the world, but the mundane might show up with something called 'B-San' – the Japanese on the Philippines had told him that 'B-San' was the name Japanese civilians had given the giant American aircraft that appeared in the skies over Japanese cities to drop death upon them. That was something that … could not be allowed. "My meetings with General Yamashita were … productive, but I caution that he represents a Japan that few of us here would be familiar with. He and his men adhere to the old Bushido code." "There is nothing wrong with that code!" this from General Anaki, Chief of Staff to the Japanese Army, and a bit of a conservative. "My pardon, General Anaki, I did not mean to imply that there is. However, the Japan of that world seems to have applied Bushido to … an unhealthy … degree." Anaki raised an eyebrow. "Unhealthy?" The Foreign Secretary continued. "Yes. It seems that the Japan of that world had adopted Bushido and the other Samurai traditions as not just an aspect of their society, but as its basis. Everything they did was viewed through that lens – and a corrupted lens at that." Nakayama paused.

"If I could review what we know?" It was a questions posed to Prime Minister Oisa. The man nodded once in reply."As you know, the United States became independent from their Britain in the late eighteenth century. They acquired the parts of North America they control, including Alaska, during the nineteenth century. Their interaction with Japan started in the nineteenth century as well. As with our world, Japan was closed off after the seventeenth century. In our world, the British opened us in the Eighteen-Forties. In their world, it was the Americans in the Eighteen-Fifties." Glances around the room. While none now would now dispute that Japan becoming more open to the world was a good thing, at the time it had been extremely traumatic to the closed society. Nakayama continued. "Like us, their Japan started modernizing and industrializing. Unlike us, they took a distinctly more…militarist…position." Anaki spoke. "How?" "It is clear that China from their world was far more degenerate that in ours, or perhaps because the British were not as strong, they lacked the ability or will to stabilize it as they did here. In any event, there was a brief war in 1895 between Japan and China that secured Korea and Formosa as integral parts of the Japanese Empire." The PM looked up. "Korea is an independent state – and while we own Formosa, we purchased it from the British. They – the Japanese of this other Earth - conquered these places?" Nakayama nodded. "Then, in 1904, they engaged the Russian Empire in a war over Manchuria. They defeated the Russians quite handily if reports are to be believed, and occupied the whole of the country."

Both Anaki and Admiral Yamaguchi, the Naval Chief of Staff looked up. "That is … impressive." Yamaguchi said. "Did the Russians oppose the Japanese on sea?" Nakayama nodded. "Yes. There was apparently a large battle in Straits of Tsushima. The Japanese won –even the Americans admit this– an overwhelming victory – and helped set the stage for the 'Soviet Union' polity that eventually replaced the Russian Empire." The Prime Minister frowned. "Both Russia and China seem far less strong in that world than ours, and of course, I can not imagine the British allowing such a thing to occur here. It does appear as if the Japanese were able to take advantage of weakening Chinese and Russian positions." Nakayama glanced up. "I would agree about China being weak, and Russia, to a point. This strange 'Soviet Union' that replaced the Russian Empire was driving the Germans from their soil and had a huge army."

"Following that," the Foreign Secretary continued, "They engaged in what they now call the 'Great War', or 'World War I'. This conflict lasted from 1914 until 1918 and positioned Germany – it was the German Empire then – along with Austria-Hungary and the Ottomans against the British, French, Russians, Italians, and later on, Japanese and Americans." Raised eyebrows throughout the room as the men there contemplated Britain and France as allies. The almost century-long tension between the British Empire and the Holy Alliance had left very little space for regional powers like Japan to operate in. Oisa spoke up. "Japan fought alongside the British and Americans in this war as allies?" "Yes, Prime Minister," Nakayama said, "which makes the break between them just a few short decades later hard to understand. In any event, this war was devastating. Even in 1914, they were more advanced than we are now. Apparently, millions died in what was called 'trench warfare' in Northwestern Europe. " "Millions?" queried Anaki, doubtfully. "Millions." Nakayama confirmed. "We have actual history texts from the period. From more than one source. While the motivations for this war seem...odd, the fact that the two alliance systems were – economically at least – evenly matched until the United States entered in 1917 is used to account for most of the casualties." Anaki still looked dubious, but nodded at Nakayama to continue. "Japan's part in the fighting of this war seemed limited, as very few of the 'millions' of casualties were Japanese, but it seems Germany controlled a fair number of Pacific Islands including the Marshall Islands and part of New Guinea. Along with Australia and New Zealand -apparently semi-autonomous in this other world but still part of the British Empire- Japan seized some of these islands."

More nods – that at least was understandable. "Germany lost that war. At the conclusion, there was a peace conference in France – at Versailles. The Germans were treated quite harshly – perhaps more so than they deserved by the British, French and Italians. The Russian Empire collapsed, and was reformed into this 'Communist' Soviet Union. The Germans lost their Empire abroad, some territory in Europe, and their Emperor was deposed, and they became a Republic." "Another republic?" said Oisa. "And a failure – more on that later." Nakayama said. "At Versailles, despite being on the winning side, the concerns of Japan, and to a lesser extent, the United States, were virtually ignored by the European powers. This, I believe, set the stage for eventual antagonism. While the United States reacted by retreating into 'isolationism' - that is, a marked lack of concern for foreign affairs, Japan's militarists were offended –perhaps not unjustly– by the sleight of Versailles. They concluded that the Europeans did not respect Japan because the Japanese are not white." Glum nods around the table. While the idea and social acceptance of skin-color-based bias was in retreat, it wasn't that long ago that it had been a huge issue. "During the nineteen-twenties and nineteen-thirties, the republic that was set up in Germany failed, under crushing reparation payments to the Allies and a massive global economic downturn they called 'The Depression'." "How did this 'Depression' start?" asked Finance Minister Togo. Nakayama shrugged. "I'm not sure. The one thing that is clear is the location – it started in the United States."

He shrugged. "This led to the collapse of the German Republic, and its replacement by the 'Nazis'. They seem to be an almost ludicrously mystical militant group based on the idea of Aryan – that's a subgroup of Northern Europeans – racial superiority." He gave a look of distaste. "Although somehow their logic was convoluted enough to allow the Japanese of that world the title of 'Honorary Aryans' when they became allies against the Americans and British."

A ghost of a smile touched Oisa's lips. "Due, no doubt to our very Northern European ancestral roots." Chuckles around the table, and even the emperor's lips twitched. "In the nineteen-thirties ," Nakayama continued, "the militarists in Japan seized complete control of the civilian government, and in 1937, launched a ground invasion of China from Manchuria."

Gasps from around the table. "Does their China have so many fewer people than ours?" asked Anaki. Nakayama shook his head. "No. More in fact. The Chinese government – there was no Empire, but simply more 'Republics' - was fractured and quite degenerate, and the Japanese of that world advanced fairly quickly, seizing most of the Northern plain, and the larger coastal cities." Oisa looked ashen. "What kind of lunatics would invade China? Hundreds of millions of people –the costs would be impossible, occupying the place – a nightmare!" Nakayama nodded, and then looked uncomfortable. "The next part is very difficult." In a quiet voice, Anaki said "Yes, because the part about launching a ground invasion of China was so easy." "One of the corruptions of the Bushido code that the Japanese of that world apparently held the was the view that those who were not Japanese were … less than human. This attitude was expressed in China. Early in the invasion, the Japanese seized the Chinese capital of Nanking. After doing so … "

Nakayama drew in a breath – "what occurred was the 'Rape of Nanking'".

Oisa looked up sharply. "What?"

Nakayama paused, shuffling his papers, and wiping a line of sweat from his brow. "The Japanese of that world – well, they…" again, Nakayama paused, "apparently killed perhaps 200,000 civilians and raped thousands more Chinese women."

For a moment no one spoke. Looks of horror were on almost every face.

Then Anaki rose. "There is nothing in the Bushido code that would allow that – murder and rape of civilians!" "As I said, General, a corrupted version of Bushido, perhaps influenced by these 'Nazis' in Prussia – I mean Germany." Taking a deep breath, Nakayama continued. "Unfortunately, it seems clear that this …tragedy… in Nanking was not an isolated incident, but 'standard policy' as it were for the Japanese. Rape and pillage, severe penalties for even minor crimes committed by non-Japanese civilians, and their treatment of captured military personnel – Prisoners of War – well, there are no words to express the horror."

Every face was ashen, and the Emperor had moved slightly from his pose; he now leaned forward to hear Nakayama's words – an almost unheard-of breach of etiquette.

No one really noticed.

Steadying himself, Nakayama continued. "If I may, the United States and others grew increasingly angry with Japanese actions in China. Like us, the Japanese were heavily dependent on imports of raw materials – particularly oil – to maintain their industrial base. As with many things in that world, the Japanese industrial base was far larger and more advanced than our own. However it was many, many times smaller than that of the United States. The United States did have the largest economy on that Earth."

More nods. Not hard to imagine that; the part of British North America replaced by the United States had been the most productive part of the British Empire, and the most heavily industrialized outside of the British Isles. "In 1939, these Nazi Germans in Europe launched another war against the French and the British. In 1940, they won a stunning victory over the British and French land armies. They conquered all of France and the Low Countries in – if this it to be believed – six weeks." Anaki looked querulous. "How?" Nakayama frowned. "I am not a military man, but the way it was explained to me was that the Germans developed a doctrine of warfare that combined gasoline-powered motorized vehicles, coupled with motorized artillery and heavily armored mobile fortresses called 'tanks' with these aeroplanes, which are used to bomb enemies from the air. Apparently, this allowed for front lines to be pierced quickly and the enemy's infantry surrounded. The French and British were unprepared for this, and folded rapidly." Anaki still looked doubtful, but nodded. "The British retreated to their island, where the Royal Navy kept the Nazis out." Nakayama frowned again. "I'm not sure about this next part, but the German Nazis were using some kind of ship that traveled underwater to try and strangle Britain's trade by sinking merchant ships. I'm not sure how this works, but evidently it was a huge problem for the British in 1940 and 1941 but largely solved in 1943." It was Admiral Yamaguchi's turn to frown. "We have heard of experiments with these kinds of vessels – called 'submarines' – from both London and Paris. I guess this other Earth was farther along." "The Japan of that Earth seized on that defeat of France."

Nakayama referred to his notes. "As on our Earth, Indochina was ruled by the French, and the Indonesia by the Dutch. With both of those countries defeated by the Nazis, the Japanese seized Indochina, and put pressure on the Dutch to sell them oil." Oisa frowned. "I know of some small oil reserves on Borneo, but they are tiny." "They are actually far larger, Prime Minister," said Nakayama, "And the Dutch of that world built them up. In any event, the United States influenced the Dutch to join them in enacting an embargo against Japan, cutting them off from oil and other strategic resources. The Japanese …" Nakayama trailed off. "I presume," said Oisa, "that this is the part where you explain that the war started." Nakayama managed a nod. "Yes, but the nightmare only gets worse here. The United States and Japan were in negotiations at the time – December of 1941 – and then the Japanese struck their main Pacific Base in the Sandwich Islands at Pearl Harbor." A pause. "Indications are that they did so without declaring war first – it was a sneak attack."

Both Anaki and Yamaguchi actually stood up. "No!"

"Reports from agents in London and Paris concur on this." Nakayama said unhappily. "At the same time, Britain was attacked. Using these aircraft carriers we have heard so much about, the American Pacific Fleet battleships were mostly sunk. Strategically, this attack was a diversion, meant to paralyze the Americans long enough to seize the East Indies for the oil and Malaya and Singapore from the British for the iron and tin. In this, at least, the Japanese were successful. For a time. They achieved most of those objectives – including conquering the Philippines from the Americans within six months."

For a moment no one spoke. Finally Oisa did. "What was their plan?"

"I'm sorry Prime Minister?"

"Their plan," Oisa repeated. "After seizing their initial objectives, what was their plan to prosecute this war?"

Nakayama licked his lips. "Ah yes, I understand now. I asked the same question of my contacts in London and Paris." A pause. "There was no plan. The Japanese of that world believed that if they hit the Americans and British hard enough, that they would negotiate a favorable peace, especially as they were engaged with these Nazi Germans in Europe."Startled looks. "That's it? They take on China, the Dutch, these powerful Americans, and, for good measure the British – all at the same time no less, and the plan was 'slap them hard when they're not looking and then they'll negotiate'!?" asked Oisa. Nakayama nodded glumly. "That appears to be the extent of it. The initial advances of this other Japan did not include taking Hawaii – I mean the Sandwich Islands – from the Americans, nor did it do anything to offset America's vast industrial weight. Using Hawaii, and their own Aircraft Carriers, the Americans recovered from the attack, built up an enormous fleet, and launched their own offensives."

Nakayama frowned. "Here the stories we are hearing from London and Paris and those of the … Japanese … in Manila differ. According to the Japanese in Manila, the US was largely defeated and on the verge of surrendering. According to London and Paris, the Americans smashed the Japanese Navy in 1942, and were advancing across the Pacific. Additionally, the Americans have submarines of their own and were strangling Japan's trade." Anaki frowned. "Who do we believe?" Nakayama sighed. "London and Paris. The sources there tell of stunning American victories in various locations like Midway. Manila does too, however they describe them as American defeats. I can not help but notice that in every recitation of the American Navy being 'defeated' or 'crushed' or 'annihilated', these battles seem to take place closer and closer to Japan, which would not be happening if America were on the verge of defeat. Additionally, the naval attaches in Manila named American warships that they claimed to have sunk. British and Alliance agents have been able to identify some of those same ships as being afloat and intact. Finally, the Japanese in the Philippines were plainly preparing to repel an American invasion. If the United States was losing, I can not imagine that the Philippines would be vulnerable to them – yet clearly it is."

More frowns. "So in addition to being brutal they are delusional as well." said Oisa. Nakayama stood and faced the wall. He REALLY didn't want to do this next part, but his duty was clear. He turned to face Oisa again. He nodded at an aide, who passed some pictures around. "Gentlemen, Your Majesty. While in the Philippines, the Japanese there allowed my staff and I to visit the … camps … where the American soldiers who were in the Philippines in 1942 and surrendered were kept – those are pictures one of my staff secured."

Nakayama shuddered. "It was inhuman. I've never …" The man shuddered and sat back down as the horrific images from the camps re-asserted themselves. "They don't view surrendered soldiers as human … they are treated more poorly than animals. They are routinely beaten, starved, executed on whims, and simply brutalized." Nakayama shuddered again. The group was staring at the pictures, aghast at what they were seeing. Several men looked ill. Anaki growled. "People who would do this to honorably surrendered soldiers know nothing of Bushido – NOTHING!" Oisa stared at the group. "So what do we do now?" Nakayama spoke. "Perhaps we can work through the British … we need time to prepare-"

"No." The room froze as the Emperor spoke. For him to have done so – to directly participate in the mundane and vulgar affairs of state were beneath his position. Slowly, his heart pounding, the Prime Minister turned to the Emperor. His eyes never rose higher than the emperor's collar. "Your Majesty?"

The Emperor addressed the Prime Minister. "You will not work through anyone else. This directly impacts the harmony and security of My Realm, and we do not rely on others for that – we rely on ourselves. You will find a way to communicate directly with the United States. You will convince them that we are not the same as the … creatures … they were fighting on their Earth. We do not 'rape' cities, and we do not treat others like in the Philippines. You will offer them whatever they ask short of territory on the Home Islands to keep the peace." The Emperor leaned forward and looked hard at Oisa. "I will not have those" –he pointed at the pictures of the American bombers – "appear over cities in **MY** Realm. You will make sure that happens, or I will be sorely disappointed."


	8. Diplomacy

****LEGAL NOTICE: THE TWO GEORGES NOVEL BELONGS TO HARRY TURTLEDOVE AND RICHARD DREYFUSS. THE FOLLOWING STORY IS MIKE TURCOTTE'S.****

* * *

 _ **October 5th, 1944**_

Despite his name, Matt Winters hated the cold. He from was Tampa, Florida and had never even seen snow until he joined the Navy in 1942. His first posting had been to a place near Chicago (and why the Navy had a base near Chicago was still a mystery to him) and his first winter there had been an unpleasant surprise. He had been relieved to get out of the cold when the Navy had assigned him to the newly-liberated Guadalcanal in 1943, though privately terrified at the prospect of combat.

Then the … event … had occurred, and Winters had found himself in – of all places – Alaska. He'd thought Chicago was frigid. Ha. It wasn't even real winter here. Winters – like many US service personnel – had prayed long and hard over the Event. After all, who but the Almighty had the power to … move … the United States from one world to another – and to position all the service people and equipment overseas to whole new places?

Every time the PBY Catalina Winters was assigned as a photographer took off, Winters feared that there would be another flash of light, and the Catalina – and Winters – would be stranded on the strange world. He knew he wasn't alone in this fear – other shared it as well. But if Captain Hitchens and Lieutenant Dawkins could manage, well, so could he.

Rubbing his eyes, Winters turned his gaze to flat gray surface of the North Pacific Ocean. The South Pacific had been blue, with various shades of turquoise and azure and even green in places with shallow water. Up here, it was gray – where the water shoaled, it was a lighter – and even colder looking – gray. Winters wasn't even sure what they were doing up here. He'd seen pictures of the ships the Japs had on this world – and well, he wasn't a surface warfare guy, but a buddy of his from Tampa was serving on the USS Wichita, and he said they could turn those ships inside out, no sweat. But memories of Pearl Harbor were long, and the Navy was being careful, and, well, Winters was up here freezing his butt off in a Catalina looking for – who knows what. And everyone knew that the Japs were sneaky bastards. The flat gray of the sea was broken by a line on the horizon. Winters didn't need Lieutenant Dawkins telling him what was coming up – Kamchatka and what on his world would have been Petropavlovsk in the Soviet Union.

Winters had heard that there was no Soviet Union on this world – that it was the Russian Empire here. Winters had no sympathy for Empire – any Empire – but he figured it better than being a Godless Communist like in the Soviet Union. Technically, Winters knew that the Catalina was violating Russian airspace. In the old world, that was a big no-no. Here, well, there were no relations between the Russian Empire and the United States, and no one here even had airplanes, so … the heck with it. Winters had overflown this place several times, and knew from briefing room chatter than other US air assets were overflying other bases. He figures the brass was just being careful. And this Petropavlovsk place was a joke anyway – nothing ever there but some fishing boats…

Winters froze as the harbor came into view. The very crowded harbor. His eyes bugged out as he saw the ships in the harbor – a whole fleet was there. Winters was sure there'd been nothing there like that a few days ago. He started snapping pictures. The brass would want to know about this.

* * *

 ** _ **October 20th, 1944  
Southampton, British Empire**_**

A crowd had gathered along the waterfront. There was, of course, an official meeting pavilion, formal and not-too-gaudy in the cool October sun, and various officials were there. But word of the arrival had leaked, and it seemed thousands of commoners had decided to attend. The Thames was strangely empty in preparation for the arrival. The British in Toronto – now the capital of what remained of British North Ameica – and the Americans in Buffalo had been in constant contact, and it had been agreed that an official meeting – with more than just the British. So a meeting had been arranged. The US had wanted it to be in Washington or New York, and after seeing the Empire State Building in New York, Duke Mortimer had been inclined to agree. The sight of that building alone would have been a potent symbol of America's technical and scientific prowess– but he had been overruled. International conferences – especially of this magnitude – were held in London or Paris. And London won. So it had been arranged. Watching from the pavilion with the dignitaries were several members of the Royal Family, the Prime Minister, many foreign representatives, Duke Mortimer, and finally, Earl Halifax, who was still in London.

It appeared as a dot in the sky, and then noise came. Halifax had told the assembled dignitaries in general what to expect, but it was a still a marvel to those on the pavilion who were watching. For the general crowds who'd received no briefing from Halifax or anyone else, it was very close to magical.

The PBM Mariner,modified for civilian transportation, overflew Southampton once, and then settled into a landing approach that put it down smoothly on the surface of the harbor. The crowd was awestruck by the machine, which was painted in the colors of the US Navy, and bore the flag of the United States on the tail. It taxied up to the specially prepared dock, and the US delegation – led by Secretary of State Dean Acheson exited. They were rendered full military honors by a British Army detachment, the slight technicality that the British Empire did not (yet at least) recognize the United States as an independent country notwithstanding. Halifax sighed. According to the official agenda – and everything was official here – there was to be a formal a welcoming ceremony for the Americans this evening hosted by the Prince of Wales. Then an official welcoming breakfast hosted by the French Duke of Anjou. Then a luncheon hosted by the Spanish. Then a train ride to London, where the conference would occur. Then a cotillion, then another welcoming dinner, hosted by the King-Emperor himself. Then an outing to watch a horse race. Then another dinner.

It was clear that diplomacy on this world was an even more … structured … process than on Earth. The absence of major wars, the power of the British Empire, and the lack of high-speed global transportation had resulted in a system far more reminiscent of the nineteenth century that what Halifax was used to. The Earl was all for the civilized niceties of engaging in proper diplomacy, but he news in recent days would make the American delegation anxious to begin. Halifax looked over the gorgeously dressed and assembled nobility. He could only hope the sight of the seaplane would spur them on to a quicker grasp of reality. Because if not, the Americans might come calling with more than one plane next time.

* * *

"Foreign Secretary, this is unexpected." said Dean Acheson.

Nakayama nodded once. He was taking a risk – Japan was taking a risk, but his Emperor's instructions were clear.

Acheson, indicated a chair in the sitting room of his elegant suite, and Nakayama sat. The fact that the man came here alone – without the legions of functionaries that seemed to follow the dignitaries everywhere on this aristocratic world – spoke volumes to Acheson. There was one young man – Acheson didn't know if he was aide or a guard – or perhaps both – who waited in the antechamber. Acheson eyed the Japanese Foreign Secretary. He looked like any other elderly Japanese man Acheson had ever seen, with extremely formal clothes that were well made and superbly fitted if a bit stylistically dated – at least to Acheson's eyes. He was clearly used to dealing with others, although Acheson wondered how many commoners the man dealt with. Donovan's OSS was re-establishing itself, and Acheson knew that Nakayama was the equivalent of a British Duke. In turn, Nakayama studied Acheson. The American style of dress was odd, and Acheson's wristwatch appeared to be a marvel of engineering. Of course, Nakayama had witnessed the 'airplane' the 'PBM Mariner' that Acheson had landed in, so the wristwatch was minor by comparison. Still, every American Nakayama had seen had one, so they couldn't be that rare. Nakayama was still wrapping his own mind around the concept of a major power without an aristocracy to guide it, but the Americans had been clear – Acheson's only title was 'Mr.', although the term 'Mr. Secretary; could be used as well. Given the relative informality of the setting, Nakayama opted for the less formal 'Mr.' In a way it was good these 'Americans' were former British subjects; Nakayama – as all diplomats in the world – had to know English, which made communicating far easier. Of course the 'English' that Acheson spoke was different than any Nakayama had ever heard, but it was understandable at least.

"First of all, thank you for meeting me on such short notice, Mr. Acheson. I am deeply appreciative of you agreeing to meet with me so soon – and so informally - after what I'm sure was a fatiguing journey from the United States." Acheson nodded once. Actually, he'd slept on the plane after it was refueled by a tender in mid-Atlantic, and wasn't particularly tired. Nakayama reached into a briefcase of polished leather. He drew out a heavy envelope embossed with ribbons and wax seals, and handed it the Acheson. "Mr. Acheson, this is a letter from my Emperor to your President. I would ask that you not unseal it, but deliver it to him." Again Acheson nodded, and placed the envelope on a small side table. Nakayama continued. "That being said, my emperor has given me knowledge of, and leave to speak with you about, most of that envelope's contents." Acheson pursed his lips. So something of substance would happen. He arched an eyebrow. "And those contents, sir?" Nakayama sat forward. "Japan, like all nations on Earth – this Earth at least – has struggled to come to grips with the arrival of the United States. Like all nations, we are stunned that something like this could happen. And so, like all nations, we have spent that last several weeks learning all we could of the United States, and the world you come from."

Acheson nodded. The 'like all nations' phrase was odd, and the fact that Nakayama kept repeating it obviously had a deeper meaning. Nakayama continued. "Like all nations, we are struggling with the concepts – and technical abilities – that the United States represents. As I am sure you aware, the 'airplane' that brought the delegation from the United States here is far beyond the technical means of anyone here." Acheson cocked his head. What the Foreign Secretary had said was true – patently and obviously true – but no one from this Earth had ever come right out and said that. The fact that it was said openly and without any covering language – that was new. "Of course, as we learned more, we learned that there was more than one way the Japan was not like all nations." The Foreign Secretary sat back. Again, Acheson nodded at Nakayama to continue.

Nakayama paused, studying the American, and then proceeded. "We learned that relations between the United States and the Japan on your world were … not ideal."Acheson stared for a moment. Diplomacy certainly did have its own language. "Not ideal. Yes, that is one way to describe it." Nakayama spoke again. "We were, of course surprised by this. And more surprised to learn how … unfortunate … your Japan's conduct during the conflict has been." 'Unfortunate'. Right up there with 'not ideal' as the understatements of the year, thought Acheson. "Yes," said Acheson. "To be blunt, a State of War existed between the United States and the Empire of Japan on … the other … Earth." Nakayama nodded. These Americans did get right to the point. "Yes, that is our understanding as well." Acheson nodded. An uncomfortable silence lingered between them for a moment. Acheson was content to sit and let the Japanese squirm for a moment.

"Mr. Acheson, my government is desirous of a peaceful relationship with the United States. Please note that the Japan that you dealt with on your Earth is a far different place than the Japan I serve. We would ask that you consider us in a new light." "How?" asked Acheson. "Japanese soldiers still occupy US territory – that will not be permitted to continue." Nakayama nodded. "Yes. My government understands that, and we have the following proposals for you in that regard." Acheson leaned forward. "Proposals?" Nakayama removed several papers from his briefcase. "First, the Empire of Japan will recognize the United States as an independent state. We will publicly state that during the introductory session tomorrow." Acheson leaned back surprised. Recognition was the goal of the conference, and to get it before the conference even began was surprising. Acheson furrowed his brow. Had he at last met someone with a … realistic … understanding of the military balance here? On the way in, the British had toured them past several naval vessels. They had looked antiquated to Acheson; Admiral Nimitz had quietly snorted in derision. "That's … extremely positive, Mr. Nakayama. What else?" Nakayama managed not to cringe at Acheson's use of 'Mr.' and continued. "Additionally, we would like you to know that we have been in contact with General Yamashita in Manila and the Japanese garrison on Guam." And the Japanese garrisons on several other British and Alliance islands as well, but Nakayama assumed that Acheson mostly cared about. Acheson stared. US planes and subs scouting the Philippines had noted the comings and goings of various people to the islands, but the US had been unaware that discussions between the two groups of Japanese had progressed to the point where they could be spoken about at the diplomatic level.

Nakayama continued. "General Yamashita has agreed to acknowledge the sovereignty of His Majesty, and the orders of the Japanese High Command." Acheson almost gasped, but stopped himself. Progress on that front had not been expected – at least not that soon. Instead he managed a slight nod. "That is interesting, Foreign Secretary. May I inquire as to what, ah...'orders' General Yamashita has received?" "You may, Mr. Acheson." Nakayama didn't add that the Japanese military delegation sent to the Philippines to coordinate with Yamashita had reported heavy fighting between some Japanese units loyal to Yamashita and some apparent die-hards who refused them. From what could be understood, Yamashita's side was winning. "We have directly ordered General Yamashita and his men to turn over control of the islands to a representative from my office – one of my undersecretaries. We understand that there is a nominal Philippine civilian government – one the United States does not recognize as legitimate – and we are coordinating with them as needed." "General Yamashita – and his men – have been ordered to Japan. After that is complete, my undersecretary has been directed to … turn over … governing responsibility of the Philippines to whatever US entity you deem appropriate. We would propose a similar scenario for Guam." Nakayama had debated the use of the phrase 'turn over', but it sounded so better than 'surrender'.

Acheson sat back. The 'proposal' was everything the US could have demanded, and the Japanese were handing it over on a silver platter. Acheson, therefore, was wary.

"And what of the captured US personnel on the islands? Our understanding is that they have not been well-cared for by General Yamashita's men." Acheson said. "General Yamashita no longer has responsibility for any United States personnel – either military or civilian," answered Nakayama, dodging Acheson's second point. "Who is – ah 'caring' for them?" asked Acheson. "Your office? Perhaps your military?" Nakayama answered. "Normally, it would be our military, Mr. Acheson. However, due to the … unique … circumstances of the situation, the care of your people has been directly assumed by His Majesty's household." Acheson's brow furrowed. "I'm sorry, Mr. Nakayama, I didn't quite get that last part." "His Majesty, the Emperor, has decreed that US personnel are now his responsibility, and under his personal protection. As such, the care of them is now being directly overseen by the Emperor's Chief Steward who has actually left Japan to fulfill that duty. In addition, the Emperor's son – the Prince Konoye – has also traveled to the Philippines to provide any … guidance that is necessary."

Acheson's mouth fell open. He knew it, but couldn't stop it. This was a new world, and the meanings of words might have changed, but if he understood it correctly…

Nakayama leaned forward. "I assure you, Mr. Acheson, US personnel on the Philippines are now receiving the very best that Japan has to offer in terms of food and medical attention. As soon as any US authority arrives in the islands, that care will be turned over to you." He leaned back. "We do this without condition, and without reservation. We hope that this can lead to prosperous relations between us in the future." Acheson sat and stared for a moment. "I must confess, Mr. Nakayama, that what you have said here is remarkable. To be honest, we haven't gotten the reception that I think we might be entitled to. To have it come from Japan first, well, that's something this is quite unexpected. I want to consider everything that you have said, and I am still waiting for some … information … from certain other sources. But on face value, I am tempted – very tempted – to take a positive view of what you have said." Nakayama almost groaned in relief. From what they had learned, Japan knew that the Americans could be reasonable, but that their anger with Japan – with the other Japan – was so great that they might not distinguish one from the other. Instead he merely gave a small smile. "I am happy to hear that, Mr. Acheson." "It is the understanding of the United States that the Philippines and Guam were territories of the Spanish Empire, prior to our arrival here." Acheson said. "May I ask what Japan's position is on this?"

Nakayama nodded. "The … final disposition … of those territories is not the business of the Empire of Japan. After control and administration of them is returned to you, we are done with them." Acheson nodded, but he wondered if more was available here. Getting Japan's outright support would be beneficial. Of course, it wouldn't play in Peoria all that well. Nakayama was still speaking. "Perhaps we might speak privately again in a few days?" Acheson nodded. "Yes, that would be good. I will communicate your proposals to my government, and then we can speak again." Nakayama blinked, and then remembered that Acheson no doubt had access to radios. He actually could communicate with his government in North America. "Yes, thank you. Mr. Acheson, I would also speak of one other item." Acheson had assumed the meeting was over, but he nodded. Nakayama looked a bit uncomfortable, but plowed ahead. "I would ask that you not reveal that this came from me, but as a further demonstration of Japan's goodwill towards the United States, my Emperor has instructed me to share one additional item of information with your government." "Oh?" asked Acheson.

"One of the powers of this Earth is planning to attack the United States." Nakayama said. "Our intelligence service has learned of this, and I am now sharing it with you." "That's … very concerning, Mr. Nakayama. May I ask which power?" Nakayama sighed. "I have been instructed to share that as well." Nakayama hadn't been sure that revealing this was wise, but as General Anaki had pointed out, anything that distracted the Americans from Japan could only be good. "The Tsar of Russia is most unhappy about the loss of Alaska, Mr. Acheson." Acheson frowned. "Is that what that Russian Fleet in Petropavlovsk is for?" Nakayama allowed no trace of surprise to appear on his face. "You are aware of that, sir?" Obviously, American intelligence-gathering capabilities were greater than expected. Acheson shrugged. "Of course. We know about the ships. We didn't know why they were there – your version of Petropavlovsk seems more developed than ours, but we couldn't fathom someone attacking Alaska as winter approaches. We frankly wondered if they were going after the Brits – or even you – but we've been keeping an eye on them." Nakayama stared. "So, might I ask what you will do if they attack?" Acheson snorted. He didn't know what the relationship between Japan and Russia was like in this world, but it hardly mattered right now. If Nakayama passed what he said on to the Russians, maybe lives could be saved. "If they violate any US territorial waters – including Alaska's – we will sink them. Plain and simple."

 _Plain and simple, indeed_ , thought Nakayama. "I see." "Do you know why they are so interested in Alaska?" "No, Mr. Acheson, we do not. From what we know, the Tsar is apparently quite emotional about the subject." Nakayama gave a helpless shrug. "We don't know why – Alaska was of very little economic value before your arrival." Acheson frowned in thought. Oh well, the Russians had sent a delegation, maybe a little face to face chat would clear things up. Who fights over Alaska? Nakayama stood, as did Acheson. "I've taken up far too much of your time, sir," said Nakayama. "I do hope you will consider all that we have proposed most carefully." "I assure you, Foreign Secretary, that this matter will receive the highest degree of attention from my government," said Acheson. They shook hands, and Acheson walked him to the door. "You know," Acheson said at the threshold. "Our understanding is that the British wanted to lead things during the conference. By moving so quickly to recognize us, Japan risks … upsetting them, doesn't it?" Nakayama paused, and then reached into his briefcase. He withdrew a picture of a B-29 – Acheson didn't know where he'd gotten it, but it hardly mattered. "Yes, Mr. Acheson, they might be … upset, as you say. But then again, they don't have these-" he held up the picture – "and you do. It has changed Tokyo's perspective on the world a bit, sir." He sighed. "International relationships – all international relationships - and I suspect that this true whatever version of Earth you are on - are ultimately about power." He lifted the picture. "This is power, Mr. Acheson, and we recognize it, even if others do not."


	9. Offenses and Offensives

****LEGAL NOTICE: THE TWO GEORGES NOVEL BELONGS TO HARRY TURTLEDOVE AND RICHARD DREYFUSS. THE FOLLOWING STORY IS MIKE TURCOTTE'S****

* * *

 _ **October 23, 1944**_

The London theater was packed. Of course, all the conference delegates were there – well, not all, but most; and all attired splendidly in their formal best. Several member of the Royal Family, including the King-Emperor himself were there as well, and a host of the London elite as well. The theater was gorgeously bedecked in glittering gold-plated statues, plush velvet, electric lights, and someone had even found red-white-and-blue bunting. There were delicacies from around the British Empire to partake in, and, not be outdone, the French had added a selection of fine wines, and the Spanish had added some rums and cigars from Cuba. It seemed a little much for Dorothy and Toto to Dean Acheson, but as the saying went, 'When in Rome …' –or in this case London, where no one had ever seen a movie, and certainly not one in color. It wasn't that this world didn't have photography – they did, albeit primitive photography – but one here had yet thought to link the photographs together to tell a moving story. Two guys from Hollywood had accompanied the US delegation and managed to rig a makeshift screen in the London theater, and Acheson was given to understand that mating the projector to the theater's power system had been a … non-trivial … task, but it had been accomplished.

Acheson had actually been in favor of 'Gone with the Wind' as the movie to show; 'The Wizard of Oz' seemed a bit childish to him, and he thought bringing along Vivien Leigh, the English actress who portrayed Scarlett O'Hara might help smooth things over with the British. However, there were concerns over the sexuality, and … unfavorable portrayal of certain regional elements of the United States … in the film, and it was thought that the fact that the Wizard was in color would be even more impressive. From the reactions of the crowd watching, Acheson had to concede the point. Dorothy was making more of an impression than Acheson would have guessed.

Yet if the film was even more evidence of the United States' technological lead, then the cinema audience was evidence that the British and others were ahead in other areas. While the majority of the crowd was white, a significant minority was not. There were brown, Asian and black faces spread throughout the crowd, and not as help staff as they would have been in America. Acheson had been stunned to learn that several high-ranking 'British' officials were not white, and that one of the non-whites – the young Duke of Ceylon – was actually being talked about as a potential future Prime Minister. Even more shocking, the King-Emperor's second son had married a woman from a prominent family in India and done so with the full approval of the King-Emperor, the British Court, and society at large. Having met the woman – young girl actually, just past her 23rd birthday, Acheson could understand the attraction: she was Hollywood-gorgeous (except for the brown skin, of course), but the fact that the British not only accepted it, but regarded it as no big deal deeply impressed Acheson.

All of that was modified by the importance of titles. No one without a title could serve at any real rank in the government, and no one without a title could be an officer in the military. While commoners could and did achieve significant mercantile positions in society, a title was the gateway to true power. Titles could be purchased for huge sums of money or earned via extraordinary service to the state but even then holders of such were regarded as 'new' and not quite as 'noble' as older lineages. It was an odd dichotomy to Acheson – a certain degree of color-blindness coupled with the idea that noble blood still existed. It was as if the aristocrats from European society had decided that the best way to hang on to their power was to extend the franchise – the aristocratic franchise – to 'imperial' societies like India in the case of the British or Indochina in the case of the French to allow the maintenance of their empires. It sounded crazy to Acheson, but the size and stability of the empires of the world were proof that the system worked. Or had worked until the United States arrived. On the screen, Dorothy was absolutely paying attention to the man behind the curtain. And the 'Wizard' turned out to be a county-fair charlatan.

The crowd was enraptured, and Acheson wondered if any of the watching aristocrats realized what a threat Dorothy – the consummate American 'commoner' - was to them. To Acheson and many Americans that was all aristocracy was: a man behind a curtain. Strip away the fancy titles, the tortuous protocols and the elaborate clothes, and all the nobles were men and women, no different than the commoners they ruled. For most of them, those titles were based on the accomplishments of past ancestors (in many cases, very distantly past ancestors) rather than anything they themselves had achieved. On the Earth the United States had come from, that had been realized and reacted to starting in the late seventeen-hundreds. Here, it hadn't yet. Acheson couldn't help but wonder what would happen when it was realized.

Because Hollywood was good at telling stories, and those stories didn't come from the nobility.

* * *

 ** _ **October 25, 1944**_**

The first substantive meeting had started barely five minutes ago, and already there was controversy.

As the Prime Minister – the Duke Russell – started the meeting with a round of introductions. Most, in addition to introducing the delegates themselves (something Acheson found completely unnecessary as the various, dinner, lunches and parties prior to this meeting had provided more-than-ample time to meet the delegates), had allowed for some kind of opening statement; these statements ranged from completely bland expressions of desires for peace (as from the British) to the Japanese, who, when their time had come, had, in addition to introducing themselves, announced – to Acheson and the world at large, that the Japanese Empire was officially extending diplomatic recognition to the United States of America. To say that the other delegates were shocked would have been an understatement, although Acheson did note the diplomatic reserve of most delegates never broke. The whispers that raced around the room, and Acheson's distinct (and deliberate) lack of surprise, had let everyone know that SOMETHING had happened between the Japanese and these new Americans. Acheson did note that Duke Mortimer-who the Office of Strategic Services had tentatively identified as the British Empire's equivalent of a chief spy-did not look surprised.

The composition of the US delegation had caused controversy as well. The fact that there was not one person with a title of anything other than 'Mr.' in the US delegation was something many were still struggling with. In addition, the presence of Harry Truman and John Bricker had to be explained. The fact that the United States was, in fact, going to have an election in just a few days was mystifying to most at the conference. The idea of … bringing along one's internal political opponents to an international conference was clearly alien. Thomas Dewey had met with Roosevelt and Acheson before the departure of the US delegation to London. While there was little love lost between Dewey and anyone in the Roosevelt administration, Dewey recognized the importance of the conference. He had committed to retaining Acheson as Secretary of State for at least the duration and immediate aftermath of the conference, if he won in November. From the polling Acheson had seen, that was unlikely, but he conceded that the man had a good point. Including Bricker (frankly a better campaigner than Dewey) was a good idea; Dewey would want his own man's take on the conference if he won. Getting that idea across to the nobility at the conference was a Sisyphean task, Acheson had discovered. One of the Ottoman delegates had even asked Bricker if Acheson would be beheaded or strangled if the Republicans won. Bricker had simply stared at that.

The Russians were, of course, as gorgeously attired as anyone else. Acheson was used to dealing with the Soviets and their drab suits, and these Russians struck him as aristocratic to the core. There were two main diplomats – a Count and a Boyar (Acheson had already labeled them Albert and Costello)– but also,by his clothes – a priest. That wasn't so unusual here: both the French and the Spanish had Catholic priests in their delegations, and the British had the Anglican Bishop of Canterbury provide an opening invocation and if odd to more secular American eyes, it was understandable. The religious figures in general stayed in background, but with the Russians, it was clear that Albert and Costello deferred to the priest, rather than the other way around. The Russian opening statement included an … interesting … statement about welcoming the United States and desiring peace, so long as the United States recognized the 'holy and inviolate borders' of the Russian Empire. It was at this point that Acheson interrupted.

"Count Vlassov, if I may?" Vlassov stopped at glared at Acheson, but nodded once.

"I can not help but notice you refer to the 'holy and inviolate' borders of the Russian Empire. The United States requests clarity as to your meaning." Vlassov smiled coldly. "I assume you are interested primarily in the borders around the North American continent, Acheson?" No 'Mr.', no 'Secretary of State', no honorific of any kind. Just 'Acheson'.

 _Well, that was just rude._ Acheson didn't rise, however, and mildly responded. "Yes, Count Vlassov. The Event has replaced what was formerly your Alaska with what is now our Alaska, and the United States requests clarity as to what the Russian Empire means by 'Holy and Inviolate?" Acheson was deliberately emphasized the 'yours' and 'ours' – not just to Vlassov, but to everyone in the room. His instructions from Roosevelt were clear: not one square inch of American territory was negotiable – not one.

"Then Acheson, you have a problem, " Vlassov said bluntly.

Acheson blinked; diplomatic language and protocols, especially in formal, multinational settings like this one, were far more elaborate and stilted than on the world the United States came from. The Japanese had already strained that protocol with their preemptive recognition of the United States; what Vlassov had done was beyond rude to the chief representative of a foreign power. However, as Acheson thought about it, he realized what Vlassov was doing. He wasn't addressing Acheson as a representative, or anything approaching an equal. He was doing so as aristocrat to a commoner. And if his tone and manner would have been a mystery to most Americans, it most certainly was not to the delegates here. They would have understood it- and how Vlassov – and presumably the Russian Empire – regarded the United States. As peasants – little more than animals barking at their betters. Acheson again refused to rise to the bait.

"May I ask what problem we have, Count Vlassov?" Vlassov leaned back in his seat, and brushed some imaginary lint off his lapel. He refused to even look at Acheson. "'We' do not have a problem. You do. Specifically, you and the entity you represent occupy territory that belongs to His Majesty, the Tsar. You will depart at once." Vlassov made a vague gesture of dismal with one hand. His tone was that of a master giving a minor instruction to a servant. The conference was dead quiet now; all the delegates, even the British were focused fully on the exchange between Vlassov and Acheson.

 _Good,_ thought Acheson. _Let's get this out into the open._

"No."

Again, silence reigned. Vlassov finally looked at Acheson with a slow, predatory smile. "What did you say, Acheson?" Acheson smiled back. Up until now, he had played the game, deferring to the others, making sure that he and his team understood court protocols well enough not to give unnecessary offense. However, he was starting to lose patience with this. _Time to slip the gloves off._

"I said 'No'. Perhaps 'Nyet' is easier for you to understand? Dealing with the Soviets in the world I came from – and, in case you are wondering, the Soviet Union was what replaced the Russian Empire after the Russian people got fed up with the incompetence of the Tsar and his idiot noble lackeys and killed them all – has taught me the value of being clear." Vlassov's eyes bulged. "Additionally, since you and the other Russian delegates seem to be burdened with certain intellectual limitations, I will use short sentences and simple words so that you can understand me." Vlassov turned an interesting shade of purple, and the other delegates were staring at Acheson as if seeing him for the first time. Mortimer crooked an eyebrow, and Acheson noted Halifax looking … somehow satisfied. "Alaska is part of the United States. It will remain part of the United States. If you try to alter that in any way, we will fight you." Acheson didn't know how to make that any plainer. Vlassov stared for a moment more – clearly shocked, and then rose from his seat. "You know not what you say Acheson! Even now, the blessed forces of the most holy Tsar are moving-"

"Your ships departed Vladivostok yesterday morning at about 9:00 local time. We know their orders are to link up with the fleet at Petropavlovsk. The force is commanded by Admiral and Grand Duke Mikhail Romanov. Once combined in Petropavlovsk, the entire force will consist of eight battleships – the Moscow, the Imperator, the Peter the Great, the Borodino, Suvorov, Sebastopol, Sissoo Veliky, and the Kiev. There are also twelve protected cruisers, and some thirty smaller ships, including troop transports with the Sibersky Venta infantry division on board."

No one breathed. Expressions of outright shock were on every face – especially Vlassov's.

Acheson continued, without emotion. "Their orders are to seize Unalaska – what we call Dutch Harbor – in the Aleutian chain, and both fortify it against any possible counterattack and prepare it as a larger base to stage to conquest of Alaska slated for the spring of 1945."

The delegates stared at him. Mortimer recovered first. "Mr. Acheson – that is a remarkable recitation of events that you claim happened less than 24 hours ago. Even if they did, I do not see how it is possible for you to know that so specifically and so quickly." Acheson stared back blankly. He wasn't going to go into long-range radio, and the PBYs the Navy had watching everything, or the fact that the Russians were broadcasting everything in the clear – the only thing needed was a translator who spoke Russian. "The United States has employed a variety of technical measures to gather this information." He turned to the Russian delegation. "Gentlemen, under no circumstances will that force be allowed to enter United States waters – and this, of course, includes Alaska."

Rasputin looked almost purple. "That is not your land – you PEASANT! Commoners do have the right to possess land – that right is reserved by God and God alone for those He has deemed worthy of such responsibility – and that is fact!"He waved an arm at the other delegates – "These … these sheep may have forgotten their blood and their legacies, but we have not!" He stood and pointed at Acheson. "You will submit to your betters, or you will know fire!"

Acheson was level. "I repeat: Under no circumstances will that force be allowed to enter United States waters." With a scowl of disgust, Vlassov stormed out of the room, followed by the other members of the Russian delegation. Acheson watched them go, and then nodded at an aide. If that didn't constitute a declaration of war, he didn't know what did. Then he turned to Nimitz and Eisenhower.

If this was going to happen, then the United States intended to make a firm example of the folly of using military force against it.

And examples worked best with an audience.

* * *

 **Transcriber's notes: Oh, Russia. You have no idea how utterly fucked you are. Lol.**


	10. Mercy

**LEGAL NOTICE: THE TWO GEORGES NOVEL BELONGS TO HARRY TURTLEDOVE AND RICHARD DREYFUSS. THE FOLLOWING STORY IS MIKE TURCOTTE'S.**

* * *

 _ **October 29, 1944**_

Mikhail Gusarov cursed as he stubbed his toe on an errant stone. Then he remembered that as a good communist, he didn't believe in God. That didn't stop him from cursing again when he crouched down, shifted his footing, and a branch whipped up and hit him in the chin.

Slightly to his right, Sergeant Brian Caswell of the United States Army was grinning openly at him, clearly enjoying the spectacle as Gusarov wiped freezing dew off of his face. Gusarov shot him back a withering look, punctuated by a one-finger salute, which made Caswell grin even more broadly.

They were supposed to be quiet, though Gusarov thought that the degree of stealth being employed here was unnecessary. The … Russians … of this world while not oblivious to idea of infiltrators clearly hadn't appreciated the impact that an airplane could have; Gusarov and the American Ranger team had parachuted in at night two weeks ago almost 30 miles from Petropavlovsk, and made their way overland to the Russian base. The base – the docks for the navy and the new and hastily-constructed Russian Army encampments around the town itself – were guarded – if not well, then at least openly – but completely ineffectively against what the Americans were doing.

The position that Gusarov and most of Rangers occupied was along a lower ridgeline buttressing the vast bulk of the Avachinsky volcano. On a clear day, it provided an excellent vantage of the town and attendant military installations. Of course, this far north, and in late fall, clear days were few, far between, and short, but visual inspection of the place was not the Rangers' primary mission.

The Rangers were here because the spot they did have provided an excellent location to intercept Russian radio transmissions. And the fact that those transmissions were in the clear made everything easier. Now, the Rangers – several of whom had at least passable knowledge of Russian – were intercepting everything and passing it up the chain back to the States.

There was no indication that the Russians knew the American team was even in the area. While the army did operate in the field, they weren't really patrolling, they seemed to be training. Gusarov – who'd been a commissar for Leon Trotsky and then Joseph Stalin in the Red Army – recognized what he was seeing. Peasants being brutalized into a semblance of soldiers – warriors would be a better term – by aristocratic officers. From what Gusarov could tell, many of the officers seemed to have very limited skills as well – though some of the NCOs – the backbone of any army – did seem to know what they were doing.

Of course, all the skills those NCOs might have had were almost meaningless when contemplating the enormous disparity in weaponry between the Russians of this world and the United States. They had nineteenth-century small arms with a few Maxim gun analogues and some heavy – almost immobile - artillery. Cavalry, real horse-born cavalry like something out of the Crimean War, and a couple of those Hindenburg-like airships.

They would have been meat for the slaughter against the Red Army Gusarov had known in the mid-1930s, to say nothing of the mechanized and airborne death the United States could rain down on them. Air power would slaughter the artillery long before it could be brought to bear, and Gusarov saw nothing besides that artillery that could stop a US half-track, to say nothing of a Sherman tank.

Looking at Caswell, Gusarov wondered – again – what he was doing here. He knew the answer of course; he just didn't want to admit it. His thoughts turned somewhat morbidly to the past. He didn't regret becoming a Communist – he believed in the teachings of Karl Marx and Vladimir Lenin with all of his heart and being. Nor did he regret siding with Leon Trotsky – in his mind, the only worthy heir to Lenin. No, what he regretted most of all was not recognizing what a true snake Joseph Stalin was. Several times, as a young man, Gusarov had been in close proximity to Stalin, and had he known what was going to happen, happily would pulled a trigger to end Stalin's miserable existence. But he hadn't.

His second regret was not leaving when Trotsky was exiled in 1929. He should have recognized that Lenin's vision of the Soviet Union could never come to fruition under a man like Stalin. But he'd been too young, too foolish, and to idealistic not to see what Stalin was. So he'd stayed on, as a military commissar, dedicated to preserving Lenin's creation from its many enemies. Then the 1930s came, and the Dark Time, the Purges. He'd watched as countless men he'd worked with – some of whom had become friends – were hauled off to exile or worse. Men who were no more treasonous than water was dry, dedicated communists who'd sacrificed much to serve the Soviet State – the state Stalin was poisoning.

Gusarov had been older then, and wise enough to see that his loyalty was suspect – due to nothing more than the fact that he had been a recipient of Trotsky's patronage at one point. So he'd fled in 1936, with his wife and two children, first to Turkey, and then to France, and from there to join the Russian expats in Mexico City with Trotsky. Being with Trotsky had temporarily inspired him again, but it was clear that the fire was gone from the old revolutionary, who seemed to content to live out days quietly with his lover Frida Kahlo. Frustrated and restless, he'd started working with the American left-wing parties in 1938. The United States was a capitalist beast, whatever their own counterrevolutionaries bleated about Roosevelt's 'socialist' New Deal, but Gusarov kind of liked the place. It was free – the idea of 'repression' against leftists in the United States was utterly laughable compared to what Joseph Stalin defined the term as – and it ardently opposed the fascists.

He'd been New York City in 1944 when the Event had happened. Gusarov had been as disoriented and confused as anyone else – and had once again thanked a God he didn't believe in that his wife was with him and his children were studying at UCLA and Columbia. He was also adrift – this world had no Lenin, no Marx, and not even real capitalism – just near-feudalism.

It had been a shock when, a few weeks later, the FBI had asked to see him. Not an arrest, not a knock in the night, but a fairly polite request for his time. With nothing to do, and with some curiosity about the subject matter, he'd agreed to speak to them. The agents had traveled with him by train to Washington DC. There, in a fairly nondescript warehouse, they had asked him about his time as a commissar in the Red Army. Gusarov had been shocked – if there was less valuable information in this new world than decade-old data about Stalin's army, Gusarov couldn't think of what it was – but it turned out they were less interested in his knowledge of Red Army tactics than they were his knowledge of Kamchatka. During his tenure, he'd been posted to a brigade in Kamchatka for a few months. That made him an 'expert' to the United States. When the Army Colonel had shown up and asked him to join a group of US Rangers parachuting into Kamchatka to serve as information gatherers for the US – spies – Gusarov had laughed.

Why would he help the capitalists against his own people?

The Army Colonel had been a rare sort. Instead of getting offended, or just leaving, he'd sat down with Gusarov over a glass of vodka. He'd asked what country represented the vanguard of the revolution. Gusarov had been about to answer when he paused. In this new world, there were no communists – no one had even heard of it – and few republics as well. The dialectic predicted a path to true societal paradise – the true and realized communist state – and few here were on that path. In fact, the country most along that path – the most progressive state was –

The United States of America.

That realization – one the army colonel had clearly arrived at prior to the meeting – struck him hard. He'd stared at the almost-smirking colonel, and then smiled. He still wasn't comfortable helping the Americans against his own people, but he also couldn't abide monarchy, and also knew that 'Russia' had no chance against the Americans, with or without his help.

Besides, he was bored.

So he agreed to help. First as a guide. There wasn't so much difference between the Kamchatka of his world, and this new one, and he knew how to talk to Russian peasants. While the some of the Rangers knew the Russian language, none of them knew Russia, not like Gusarov did. It was easy – Kamchatka was lightly populated at best, and Gusarov's story about being part of a survey team for an industrial conglomerate based out of Moscow was plausible.

So here he was. Back in the Rodina. Helping the capitalists. And feeling more alive than anytime since 1936.

Caswell and Gusarov both turned back to Petropavlovsk at the sound of a loud horn. In the harbor, the activity had seemed almost frenzied for days, and now the reason for that activity was apparent. The Russians were on the move.

Gusarov stood and watched as the long ragged lines of ships wallowed out into the cold and rough north Pacific. Silently, Caswell and another Ranger named Kindred watched them leave.

"Those poor bastards." Gusarov said quietly. While familiar with the Army, he was no naval man, but just looking at those primitive ships clawing their way through the water, he knew they had no chance against the US Navy.

Caswell nodded in agreement, his eyes sympathetic. Kindred was not. "We showed them what we had. Not our fault the stupid nobles are too dumb to realize what we got." He paused, an angry look in his eyes. "We gotta stand up for ourselves – show that we can defend ourselves – or these nobles will just run all over us." Kindred paused again, the anger fading a bit. "I do feel bad for the regular people down there. They have no idea of the Hell they're sailing into."

Gusarov nodded. He sincerely hoped that the naval battle was enough to convince the aristocrats to stop this foolishness. For the now, the Ranger's job was observe and report. If the monarchy persisted in this, that job would change – dramatically.

Caswell turned, and headed back into the forest, towards the base camp the Rangers had established. "Come on you two. Time to send the message. The Bear has left the den."

* * *

 ** _ **November 8, 1944**_**

Commander James Smythe-Whiting, heir to the Earldom of Edmonton, looked around him in awe. He realized he was doing it – and in front of commoners no less – but he couldn't help himself. Ever since last week – when he had received the decidedly odd orders to report to the new 'US' border just south of Vancouver, he had been feeling shaken, and upon actually seeing the United States, that feeling had only intensified.

He – and several other non-American officers – had been taken first to a hotel in Seattle for a briefing. War – not the legal definition of it because no one outside of Japan recognized the United States – but war nonetheless was brewing between the United States and the Russian Empire. Smythe-Whiting couldn't imagine why the Russians wanted Alaska so badly, but evidently they did. Smythe-Whiting and the others had been invited by the United States government as observers to a naval battle that would occur in several days about 200 miles from Attu island in the Aleutians. Smythe-Whiting had cocked an eyebrow when informed that the Americans had already planned the battle. No one could do that, after all. You would need perfect intelligence on the enemy's position – a practical impossibility once it left port, and presuming even marginal operational security – and their intended destination.

After a few days, Smythe-Whiting had reassessed his definition of 'impossible'.

Despite the continental nature of his inheritance, Smythe-Whiting had always had an affinity for the sea. His uncles had estates on the Pacific Coast, and from the time he was a young boy, he'd felt the call of the oceans. As an heir, it was expected that he would serve in some capacity of the military; his father had been bemused by his choice of the Royal Navy, rather than the army, but accepted it.

Once in the Royal Navy, Smythe-Whiting had excelled. Posted to Kingston, in Jamaica, he had luxuriated in the warmth of the southern sun, and the warmth of the local female companionship. For a young officer, the massive British base at Kingston was the place to be. The Caribbean was a confused political welter of British, Dutch, Alliance, Portuguese and even Swedish interests, with no one above engaging in a little 'unflagged' piracy to gain advantage over the others. Assigned to one of the British battleships, as was appropriate for a young man of his station, Smythe-Whiting had quickly grown bored with the almost entirely administrative aspect of the post. No one was insane enough to do anything so outrageous as to justify an actual combat deployment of something as large as a battleship. But the torpedo-boats, that was another story. Racing about at almost 25 knots, engaging in running gun battles with poorly-disguised Alliance 'pirate' vessels, the thrill of the chase, this was what Smythe-Whiting wanted. And, after much pleading, and two letters from his father, he got it.

Smythe-Whiting's instincts were good, and command came naturally to him. His quickly found himself in charge of his own boat. While it had been several years ago now, he still remembered his time on the Stiletto fondly. The action, the sense of camaraderie with his men, the sun, the women, all were wonderful. And that he'd actually engaged in battle – and done well – against the opponents of British civilization – that made him proud. Promotions and commendations had come, and Smythe-Whiting knew his father was proud. It came to end when his talents had been recognized, and he'd been sent to Britain itself for more training, and larger commands. Deployments to the Mediterranean and Pacific had followed, but nothing made him as happy as those memories of the sun.

He'd been visiting his family in their estates outside of Edmonton when the Event had happened. And EVERYTHING changed.

Commander Whiting had known that before he reported to the British base at Vancouver. Previously a tiny station meant to keep a distant (and almost wholly unnecessary eye) on the Russians in Anchorage, the base was packed with British – and non-British – shipping escaping the … enigma … to the south. After a few days, Smythe-Whiting and some other officers had toured the new border. The hastily deployed colonial troops – stiffened with a few reserve and out-of-retirement regulars – had dug in on the border and Smythe-Whiting had observed firsthand the 'aeroplanes' that the … colonials … serving the entity that had replaced the southern half of British North America employed. They were certainly impressive-looking, as were the huge armored 'tanks' that moved with a speed and grace that belied their size.

Then he had been invited across the border, and upon seeing Seattle, Smythe-Whiting had felt his stomach drop. He was informed – believably so – by his American minder that Seattle – by far the largest and most industrial city Smythe-Whiting had ever seen besides London itself – was considered to be no more than a mid-sized place more important for its position and harbor than anything else. It was like a big city – like New York, Philadelphia, Baltimore or wherever 'Chicago', 'Pittsburgh', 'Detroit', 'San Francisco' and 'Cleveland' were.

From there, Smythe-Whiting's life changed. The Americans loaded him the other international observers on an actual 'Aeroplane' – a Boeing Clipper, and flown him to the Sandwich Islands. Smythe-Whiting knew how far the Sandwich Islands – called 'Hawaii' here – actually were, and how long it would take to get there. Others in the international delegation had warned him how fast the transit was, but he hadn't believed them until a few hours later when they stepped out onto a dock at Pearl Harbor. The transit was – if not comfortable compared to the airships he was familiar with – at least tolerable, and very fast.

He had exited the plane in the bright sunlight of Pearl to see an amazing sight. Smythe-Whiting had seen literally hundreds of ships in his day, of all sizes and shapes, from a dinghy to Battleships, and everything in between. He considered himself an expert on not just British naval ships, but those of her potential adversaries as well, but never, never had he imagined something like the Brobdingnagian majesty of what he later learned was the USS Maryland as it sailed into Pearl Harbor. For at least ten minutes he stood – struck dumb like a new midshipman at Plymouth – seeing the enormous number – and sizes – of the fleet the United States had assembled at Pearl Harbor. He didn't know what bothered him more – the scale of the US Navy – of which he was only seeing a portion of – or the fact that someone informed him that the Maryland was actually an older US ship, nearing retirement. 'Nearing retirement'. Staring at the Maryland, Smythe-Whiting wondered if the whole Royal Navy could sink it. The answer he came up with was 'maybe' – and only if it ran out of ammunition at some point. And if it was nearing retirement, how terrible were the NEW ships the Americans had?

Staring at the mass of ships, he wondered what on Earth the Russians were thinking.

Beyond the Maryland were the strange 'aircraft carriers' they Americans had. Smythe-Whiting had never seen such ungainly-looking vessels. Unbalanced, with a superstructure on only one side, and an enormous flat deck for the airplanes. He wondered how they would work. He would find out shortly.

* * *

 _ **November 13, 1944  
**_  
From the deck outside of the bridge of the Borodino, Grand Duke – and Admiral – Mikhail Romanov swore as he watched the watched the American aircraft circling the Russian Pacific Fleet. The rays of the rising sun glinted off of the metal hulls of the craft, making them seem almost like stars in the brightening sky. They weren't, but so far they hadn't done any damage, so Romanov was prepared to simply admire them.

For now.

Ever since leaving Petropavlovsk, the Americans had been there, circling them. Romanov had worried about that at first, but all they did was circle, so he wasn't that concerned. Oh, they were impressive machines, no doubt, and he was sure that they were somehow communicating his position to their command, but they didn't seem capable of hurting anything.

His staff, bodyguards, and valet hated it when he ventured outside. Romanov snorted at the thought. Locked up in a metal bridge was no way to command a fleet. He needed to be here, to see the sky, the ships – to feel the ocean – that was what a fleet commander did. And if that exposed his body to some physical danger and his appearance to even greater risk from the whipping wind, then so be it. Besides, the sea air was so much better smelling than the air on the bridge.

He had no doubt that that he could succeed in his mission; if fact, it seemed a bit of overkill to him. He had the bulk of the Russian Pacific Fleet to secure tiny Unalaska – and he frankly worried about what the Alliance or Japanese might do in his absence. He cared far more deeply about Vladivostok than he did Unalaska – in fact he wondered why his cousin had sent him out here at all. Oh sure, the Americans were – if reports were to believed – peasant upstarts to be slapped down when the time came, but launching a campaign in the Aleutians in late fall was not his idea of fun. It wasn't like Alaska was all that valuable, after all. Nor he was he fond of leaving Vladivostok so bare of mobile naval support. At least he'd convinced the Tsar to hold off on the main assault until spring. By then, whatever ships the peasants had would be good and sunk, and he – and the fleet – could return to port where they belonged – the Alaskan campaign would be Army affair, requiring little beyond sea lift from the Navy.

He inhaled deeply of the fragrant North Pacific air, and looked at the sky. Yes, it was finally going to be a sunny day, perhaps he and his men could enjoy a respite from the autumn storms and squalls.

* * *

On board the USS Intrepid, Smythe-Whiting looked up as the American commander Admiral Raymond Spruance entered the bridge. Peasants though they were, the Americans all braced to attention at the admiral's appearance. Discipline aboard the Intrepid was as intense as anything Smythe-Whiting was familiar with, and the crew moved with practiced ease. These men knew what they were about.

The relatively small group of American ships sent to oppose the Russians – which went by the odd names of 'TG 38.1' and 'TG 38.2' – seemed strange to Smythe-Whiting. Only two battleships – the Iowa and the New Jersey – and if the Maryland had been huge and imposing, then these ships were even bigger – and more elegant-looking. But they were Death, come to Smythe-Whiting's world in hideous beauty, and their speed was simply unbelievable. 30 knots they could make if they had to, he was told.

Spruance nodded at another admiral – Mitscher, who wore an odd – even for the Americans – hat – and nodded once. He was too far away to hear anything – but did pick up a snippet about the clear weather, and Mitscher nodded in reply. He barked orders to his Chief of Staff, who relayed them to others. As Smythe-Whiting looked on, four fleet carriers and four light carriers, and the escorts turned into the wind.

* * *

Mikhail Romanov was still on the deck outside of the bridge when the first destroyer exploded. All was calm, or as calm as it should be, when the early dawn was shattered by a flash of light and noise. As Romanov turned – stunned – he saw one of the outlying destroyers burning brightly. It had split into two pieces, even as Romanov watched the bow section was slipping beneath the waves. He was wondering about a magazine explosion, or a problem in the engine room, when another destroyer blew up. Then another. Then a protected cruiser – the Odessa – was struck by something on its port side. From the damage Romanov thought torpedo, but there were no enemy ships about. A cry from the lookout wrenched Romanov's attention away from the hellishly burning ships to the eastern horizon. Squinting against the rising sun, Romanov could make out the dots of approaching aircraft – many approaching aircraft. And unlike the others, these were low in the sky, and coming right at the Russians. Romanov was still contemplating what that might mean when a torpedo fired from the submarine USS Darter impacted the hull of the Borodino almost directly below where he was standing.

* * *

On board the Intrepid, Smythe-Whiting watched as the Americans updated the large … glass … board detailing the positions of the Russian ships. Despite their openness, the Americans hadn't let him know how they were tracking the Russians, although the oddly spinning devices on the masts might have had something to do with it. Methodically, the Americans manning the board would draw red 'X's through various symbols representing the Russian ships. From what Smythe-Whiting and the other international representatives could tell, the US sank almost the entire Russian battle line in under an hour of battle. The remaining Russians – down to two battleships and some lighter craft - seemed to be turning around.

Spruance and Mitscher looked pleased at the results. Pleased. From what Smythe-Whiting could tell, the United States had, with a tiny portion of its Navy, just won the most devastating victory in living memory - and took no casualties while doing it - and they were 'pleased'.

Smythe-Whiting noted that the previous nice day – and was it noon already? – had deteriorated. Heavy clouds were moving in, the sea was getting rougher. Spruance and Mitscher engaged in a brief conversation, and seemed to come to some kind of agreement. Smythe-Whiting's navy minder came forward. The air and 'submarine' (whatever that was) component of the battle was concluded; would Smythe-Whiting like to transfer to the Battleship New Jersey, which would be continuing with a surface action?

Oh yes. Yes, indeed he would.

* * *

On board the Moscow, Rear-Admiral Pavel Miskulov groaned with relief as the clouds moved in. The demonic American airplanes had departed; presumably back to whatever Hell had spawned them, and Miskulov looked over the remains of the Russian Pacific Fleet. All but two battleships gone, and both of those damaged. His own ship had taken two torpedoes and two bombs and might yet founder. As it was, the Moscow was making barely 10 knots. All the protected cruisers gone. All but four of the destroyers, half the troop transports, a third of the supply ships.

The pride – and power – of the Rodina's navy swept away in a few terrible hours. He didn't know how many men had died.

He didn't think they'd succeeded in killing even one American.

He turned as a lookout screamed a warning, and then the ocean around him erupted in flame.

* * *

Smythe-Whiting gasped as the USS Iowa exploded. He was stunned – he thought the US battleships well-nigh indestructible, but the explosion from the Iowa was vast. He stared, and then noticed that no one of the New Jersey's bridge was reacting, and that either meant rock discipline in the face of tragedy, or …

The smoke cleared, and Smythe-Whiting saw the USS Iowa, completely intact. For all of his experience, he grew cold at the realization that what he had thought was the destruction of the Iowa was in fact the ship firing a broadside from those nine super-guns. The flash was so intense that even he had thought that the ship had exploded.

Smythe-Whiting couldn't see the Russians, but staggered at the New Jersey joined her sister in firing. Along the flanks, the supporting cruisers and destroyers surged forward as well. He had wondered at bringing only two battleships to face the Russian's eight. Now he wondered why the Americans had bothered with that many. If the previous reports from the American air strikes were accurate, then there was precious little of the Russian Pacific Fleet to shoot at. Smythe-Whiting doubted those destroyers would have much to do.

He stared at the western horizon, aflame from the US guns, and wondered for the future. The British were better than the Russians, yes, and had more – and better ships. But no force on Earth could hope to oppose what Smythe-Whiting had witnessed this day, and his guts clenched at thought that these ships could sail right up the English Channel, and there would be nothing – nothing – the British could do but pray for deliverance.

For if the British Empire came to battle with the United States, then God might have mercy, but Smythe-Whiting doubted the US Navy would.


	11. Forced viewpoint

**LEGAL NOTICE: THE TWO GEORGES NOVEL BELONGS TO HARRY TURTLEDOVE AND RICHARD DREYFUSS. THE FOLLOWING STORY IS MIKE TURCOTTE'S. With that out of the way, enjoy!**

* * *

 _ **November 10, 1944, the Bering Sea**_

The fog cleared enough for Daryl Kinney to see an overloaded whaleboat; he called it out as soon as he spied it lying dangerously low in the Pacific swells. Evidently his shout – echoed by two other lookouts - wasn't needed; USS Owen (DD536) was turning to rescue the survivors of what the US Navy was officially calling 'The Battle of Cherny Cape' and what everyone else was calling 'The Great Aleutian Crab Stomp' already. Ropes were thrown over the side, and two men in wetsuits were standing by to (hopefully) rescue anyone who went into the water before hypothermia set in. Armed Marines lined the sides of the Owen as well; Kinney doubted they'd be needed. If these survivors were anything like the others – and there was no reason to think that they weren't – they'd be so grateful at being rescued that they'd offer no resistance at all.

Kinney had joined the US Navy after Pearl Harbor, and had been in several battles in an around the Solomon Islands against the Japanese. The adrenalin-pumped, sphincter-clenching terror of those days had not been repeated here. The enemy had been utterly outclassed, and everyone – on the US side at least – had known it. Kinney was guessing that everyone on the Russian side now knew it as well – the few who had survived, that is. For Kinney – and the Owen – the battle had consisted of airstrikes from the carriers followed by a high-speed dash through the stormy afternoon. The big guns of the battleships and cruisers had finished off the Russians, and the Owen and the other destroyers were merely picking up pieces.

Kinney didn't know what the final tally was – but he'd been told it was the greatest naval victory in US history. He snorted internally at that. Some victory. Kinney – like most – had seethed for revenge against the Japanese after Pearl Harbor, and that roiling anger had transferred easily enough to the Russians on this new world. But this hadn't been a battle. It had been a slaughter, and Kinney was simply glad it was over. Scuttlebutt said that no one on the US side had died, though apparently some really unlucky Avenger pilot had to ditch next to the USS Hancock and be rescued. Apparently, the Russians – even though they had no dedicated AAA guns on their ships – had fired enough lead into the air at maximum elevation for their guns, and damaged one plane.

On the Russian side, Kinney had heard that all the Russian battleships (though calling those ships 'battleships' was an insult to the term) had been sunk, and all the 'protected cruisers' (whatever those were) as well. Some of the smaller fry had escaped – or been let go was more like it – and were fleeing back to Petropavlovsk. The Owen, and the other members of DESRON 52 were now scouring the sea for survivors. Frankly, Kinney hadn't expected many; the sea was so cold that no one survived for long.

However, they did catch one break. One of those protected cruisers – the Prince Nevsky – had taken all its hits in 'lucky' places – lucky meaning the ship had settled slowly enough for the crew to abandon ship.

Or try to abandon ship. Apparently this world had not had anything like the Titanic happen. The Nevsky had not had enough small boats for the entire crew (or perhaps some of the small boats were lost when the Nevsky was damaged – Kinney wasn't sure), and as result, the boats they did find were heavily overloaded – not a good thing on the Bering Sea in November.

The passengers on the boats tended to fall into two categories. One was the aristocrats – and what Kinney guessed were Russian Marines – all armed with no 'commoner' crew. The other category was pure commoner. While both groups were grateful to be rescued, armed US Marines had to separate them; and it wasn't hard to figure out why. Clearly, as the Nevsky was sinking, the officers and Marines had decided the boats were for the upper classes – and their guards – only. The 'commoners' had disagreed.

Kinney watched as the Owen drew up alongside the whaleboat. Two US sailors scurried down the ropes on to the Russian boat, and started helping the Russian survivors climb the ropes. After two days on the ocean, most sailors lacked the strength to ascend the ropes unaided. He shook his head. The one Russian-speaking member of the Owen's crew had talked himself hoarse over the last few days, but he was a buddy of Kinney's. Apparently, executive officer of the Nevsky had survived, and while he'd acknowledged he was a prisoner, he'd demanded officer quarters for himself and the other aristocrats. Kinney shook his head. That 'request' had been politely – and then less politely – refused, and the guy was apparently spitting mad. Originally, they were going to put all the Russians into the same wardroom, but fights broke out immediately between the two categories, and they'd been forcibly separated.

Kinney turned from the whaleboat to scanning the dim horizon for more survivors. He focused west – towards Petropavlovsk. His eyes turned hard. He didn't want to be here – freezing his butt off in the Aleutians as winter approached. These Russian nobles better get the picture, and get with the program, and quickly, or what happened to the Russian Fleet would happen to their army as well.

Unfortunately from what Kinney had seen of these nobles, the Americans would have more work to do.

* * *

 ** _ **November 14, 1944, Halifax, British North America  
**_** **  
** **"** **So how bad was it?" Mortimer got right to the point. Smythe-Whiting sighed. "It was awful – the most one-sided battle I have ever seen. The Americans smashed the Russian fleet as easily as swatting a fly." He knew that wasn't what the Duke – or the Prime Minister wanted to hear, but it was the truth. Russell spoke. "Initial reports are that the American air strike failed to sink the Russian Fleet."**

Smythe-Whiting looked confused. "My lord, I do not know where you heard that, but the initial airstrikes were devastating. The Americans sank six battleships and many other ships with them – though some of the Russian casualties might have been due to these 'submarines'." He shook his head. "I actually think that the airstrikes were the worst – there is literally no defense against them, and the weapons the planes carry are devastating." Russell persisted. "But the Americans were forced to use their surface ships?"

Smythe-Whiting shook his head. "At no time and at no point were the Americans 'forced' to do anything. Deteriorating weather made air operations somewhat dangerous. If they had been in a 'real' battle, the Americans would have continued them regardless of weather." Both Russell and Mortimer looked surprised at Smythe-Whiting's use of the word 'real'. The Russian Pacific Fleet was one of the four largest pre-Event fleets in the Pacific – and a primary factor in British (and they were sure, Alliance and Japanese) war planning. Any conflict against it would have been more than 'real'. For someone from this world, that was. Smythe-Whiting continued. "Since they regarded the Russians as no threat, they chose to keep their air flyers safe, and engage with their two battleships." Smythe-Whiting paused. "Not that I think they needed the battleships at all – their cruisers and destroyers would have done the job as well alone. And I think there were other reasons as well."

Mortimer cocked an eyebrow. "Oh? Please continue, Commander." The young man sighed. "Please understand my lords, this is but speculation on my part." "Yes, yes, do go on." Russell gave an impatient nod. Mortimer narrowed his eyes, concerned at the Prime Minister's lack of poise in front of a junior officer and aristocrat.

 **"** **The Americans took the time to transfer myself and the other observers to the battleships. Given their speed advantages and the knowledge of the Russian fleet's position, this was acceptable, but still odd. Nothing is certain in battle, and nothing obvious was gained by having us there," said Smythe-Whiting. Mortimer spoke. "So speculate on why they did it."**

Smythe-Whiting sighed, clearly unhappy. "I think they did it for us. They wanted to smash the Russians, yes, but as I now understand it, those Russians were never going to be a threat to them, so they wanted us to see it." Smythe-Whiting stood and clasped his hands behind back. "I had quite a bit of time to think on the airship from the West Coast, my lords. Upon extensive reflection, and upon comparing notes with my colleagues, I can come to only one conclusion: The Americans staged the battle."

Russell blinked. "I'm sorry, Commander, I don't quite follow. How does one 'stage' a battle against an opponent the size of the Russians?"

Smythe-Whiting nodded. "Please allow me to explain, My Lords. There was no need for the Americans to fight that that battle – or to fight it as they did. The reason I say that is that at no time was the Russian fleet any kind of a threat to them. They knew this all along – had known it for months. And I when I say 'them', I don't just mean the American officers." Smythe-Whiting paused, clearly gathering his thoughts. "At no time did they make any attempt to restrict who I spoke to, or what I spoke about. There were areas of this ships I couldn't go to, and I was politely escorted, but they were almost unbelievably open. Every single sailor I spoke to – from Admiral Fletcher to a mess-room attendant knew exactly what they were sailing into, and no one had the slightest fear."

Smythe-Whiting paused again, and then continued. "I didn't understand it at first – I attributed it to hubris or even some kind of mental conditioning, but it wasn't anything like that. The Americans knew the whole time what was going to happen. They easily could have sunk that fleet using nothing more than these submarines and airplanes based on land rather than on carriers. Frankly, that would have been safer, though there really was never any danger to them."

Mortimer felt himself grow cold as he contemplated what was said. Russell clearly didn't grasp it yet. He looked confused. "Please explain."

Smythe-Whiting continued. "The Americans started off by flying us to Pearl Harbor in the Sandwich Islands; utterly unnecessary as it would have been easier to fly us to Alaska and meet up with their fleet there. Instead, they let us experience their 'air travel', and then provided us an extensive tour of their facilities in Hawaii – I mean the Sandwich Islands. Then they detached a small – modern but small – portion of that fleet – and this was only part of their Pacific Fleet I remind you – and sailed it up north. They waited for a clear day, and let us see the actual launching of strikes against the Russians. From conversations with my colleague from the Royal Navy Airship Scouting Corps, Lieutenant Harwell, who actually flew with the strike, the air attack was utterly devastating, and a second one would have sunk everything. Then, rather than doing that, they chose to transfer us to those mega-battleships of theirs and we watched them smash the remaining Russians with their superguns."

The commander shrugged again. "Everything I saw about the Americans implied vast experience and a dedication to economy of action. Yet they foreswore that to fight what was – for them at least – an inefficient battle." Smythe-Whiting drew himself up. "I think that they did this to demonstrate – brutally demonstrate – that every aspect of their navy works as they claimed. I think they wanted us to know – and that they wanted me to report to you – exactly what I am reporting now." Russell looked dark. "So they are dangerous."

Smythe-Whiting shook his head. "No, my lord, 'dangerous' doesn't cover it. They are simply unstoppable. At this moment, I would say that every stretch of ocean, every sea, gulf, bay and cove, are owned by the US Navy."

Mortimer sighed. He knew the answer, but the question had to be asked. "Commander, in your professional opinion, could we face them in battle? Perhaps supported by shore guns?"

"No, my lord, we could not. We could position every ship we had in the Channel, backed by every shore fortification we have – from Dover to Plymouth - and ally with the French as well, and it would be nothing more than …" Smythe-Whiting stopped for a second, clearly thinking – "ah yes, it would be nothing more than what the Americans call a 'target-rich environment'. I seriously doubt that we would sink one American ship or kill even one sailor, especially if the Americans take it seriously." Russell seemed to deflate again, and Mortimer again noticed. "Thank you Commander. Please hold yourself in readiness should we have more questions." Smythe-Whiting nodded, gave a slight bow, and left the room.

Mortimer eyed Russell. It was just the two of them. "So, my Lord Prime Minister, what do we do now?" Russell sighed. "Continue on to Washington. The French are sending representatives and most of the small states as well." The conferences that had started in London would be continuing in the American capital.

"And once there," Mortimer pressed. "We grant them recognition." Russell's tone was flat and unhappy. "I simply don't see another way out. We can not risk that –"he waved in the direction Smythe-Whiting had left from – "being brought against us."

Mortimer looked glum – recognizing the United States would mean ceding a huge chunk – though by no means all - of his family's personal holdings. However, he couldn't council anything else. "But I tell you this, My Lord," said Russell looking more confident than he had, "this will not stand. We may have to swallow our pride for now. And abide in weakness. But fair Albion will not be relegated to being a second tier power, not by any means." He looked crookedly at Mortimer. "Perhaps we might arrive at some ideas as to how to remedy this most unfortunate situation we are in." He studied Mortimer for a moment, and then gave a small smile. "Then again, perhaps you already have ideas on the matter."

The smile Mortimer gave in return would have made a Great White flee in terror. "Indeed, My Lord, perhaps I have. But those thoughts do not start with the United States." At Russell's inquiring look, Mortimer's grin grew even worse.

"No, Prime Minister, they start in Paris."

* * *

 ** _ **November 15, 1944, Washington DC, United States of America**_** ** **  
**** **  
The military officers all rose as Roosevelt entered the room. Dean Acheson did as well, and gasped at Roosevelt's gaunt appearance. Acheson had risen to political maturity under Roosevelt's tutelage, and it was simply impossible to imagine that lion of a man, the leader of the United States through Depression, War and the Event, and the winner of an unprecedented fourth term in office, fading, but clearly he was. His eyes were alert enough, but body was clearly failing, and Acheson remembered that all men – even Roosevelt – were mortal. Faintly, Acheson wondered if someone was keeping a watch on Harry Truman. Actually, given Roosevelt's appearance, Henry Wallace might get his chance at the Oval Office, even if only for a few weeks. Roosevelt's attendants rolled his wheelchair to the front of the table in the Cabinet Room.**

Roosevelt, always so careful to hide his disability from the public, wasn't even making an effort now, and that scared Acheson more than anything else.

Roosevelt waved one hand weakly, and the military men all relaxed and took their seats, as did the civilians. Roosevelt tried to smile at the room, and that rictus combined with the dark hollows under his eyes made him seem even more ghoul-like. He turned to face one officer. "Admiral King, I understand there was a scuffle in the Aleutians."

King replied. "Yes, Mr. President. We met and defeated the Russian fleet. Admirals Spruance and Mitscher are to be commended." King paused, and shrugged. "It wasn't much of a fight. The Russian capital ships – what they use as capital ships – were all sunk. Most of the lighter craft as well. Per your orders " - if King didn't like those orders he hid it well – "we allowed some of the small craft and transports to escape. We are also gathering prisoners from sunk vessels – not many, but at least one of their bigger ships was able to launch lifeboats before it sank. We have a couple of nobles, and what we think was the deputy commander of the fleet. They are being transferred stateside for debriefing." Roosevelt nodded. "And our guests?" King couldn't quite hide the scowl. He hadn't liked the British on the old world, and didn't like them here either. "We showed them everything we had, except the subs. Airstrikes, a surface action, the whole bit. They were suitably impressed."

Roosevelt nodded, and then turned to the one not-quite-American in the room. "Earl Halifax, you've spent more time with the British than anyone else here. How will they react to this battle?" Acheson wondered at the Earl's inclusion in this meeting. He wasn't sure where Halifax's loyalties lay. He wondered if the Earl knew that himself. Halifax nodded once at the President. "With dread, sir, and possibly indignation."

Roosevelt cocked an eyebrow. "Indignation?" He made it a question.

Halifax sighed, a sad sound. "Sir, you must understand, despite speaking the King's English, and using the Union Jack, and calling themselves 'British', these are not the same people we are used to." Halifax decided on candor. "I do not believe that it a secret to anyone here that the British Empire on the world we came from was … not what it once was." Halifax looked glum, but many around the table were nodding. "The war of 1914-1918 drained the Empire, and our manufacturing and technical bases were eclipsed in size by the United States, Germany, and the Soviet Union. Also, we couldn't field the forces that our opponents – or our allies – could. Indeed, I think General Marshall knows that we were being forced to break certain infantry divisions just to keep our other formations at strength." Halifax looked around the table. "Additionally, we knew that after the war, we couldn't afford the fleet or air force." Halifax straightened. "I personally believe that after the war we would have recovered, and with the political formation of the Commonwealth, emerged stronger than ever as a true partner to the United States in maintaining the peace." There were dubious looks from around the room at the last remark. Acheson doubted that himself; the British had been exhausted, tapped out, and likely lose most of their Empire, including the 'crown jewel', India, whatever Churchill said.

The British Earl pursed his lips. "Here? Here it is different. I don't believe that anyone here had truly grasped how overwhelmingly powerful this British Empire was. They don't keep statistics as well as we do, but I believe that the Empire directly controlled something like 65% of the wealth of this world. They have maintained a stranglehold on power for more than a century – and there were frankly – whatever this 'Holy Alliance' might like to bluster about - no threats to their … domination … of the world."

Halifax shook his head. "Then the Event came. And their Empire was sundered. Worse, it was replaced by a republic, and with technology and wealth far beyond what they could imagine. You have airplanes and automobiles and tanks and aircraft carriers. You smashed what was to them a potent naval force, and did so with essentially no effort." Halifax nodded at Roosevelt. "They went from unchallenged – and unchallengeable – to utterly helpless in an instant." He sighed again. "Despite everything I told them about your military capabilities, I don't think they truly believed me." His eyes grew distant. "They do now, I imagine." Acheson spoke. "So how will they react to all of this?" Halifax nodded, as if he'd anticipated the question. "It is difficult to say. You've done a good job by not backing them into a corner. The critical man over there is Duke Mortimer, I think, rather than the Prime Minister. Mortimer is far brighter than I initially thought, and seems to have his hands in a fair number of their governmental ministries as well. I know they are worried about their Caribbean possessions, not from you, but from the Alliance. You have cards to play there."

The British ambassador leaned back. "Not that you were concerned, but I think have little to worry about in terms of direct military action from them. Mortimer may not like you much – yet – but he's smart enough not to commit his forces to what you've demonstrated would be an utterly futile battle. Technically, he can't do much – for now. I would say you can press him on diplomatic recognition." Nods all around, and Acheson wondered if anyone else noticed that the British Empire went from being 'them' to 'him'; as if Mortimer were the entirety of it. Roosevelt turned to Acheson. "When does the conference resume?"

"In two days. Most of the delegates are already here; I understand that Hoover's people are keeping an eye on them." Acheson grimaced a bit. He didn't like the Director of the FBI; something just seemed off about the man. "On another note, an advance team from my office has arrived in Manila. So far, the Japanese are keeping to deal they made." Grimaces all around, especially from the naval people. Acheson had wrangled Roosevelt into letting the State Department handle the initial contacts in the Philippines and Guam, and so far so good. "And the Russians?" asked Roosevelt.

Acheson grimaced. "No response to our communication attempts. Nor at the Embassy in London." The United States had left several military and State Department representatives at a large mansion in London the British government had 'loaned' them. Since there were no official diplomatic relations between the United States and the British Empire, it couldn't really be called an 'embassy', but that's what it was. "Unofficially, the British have told us that they're still getting the news in St. Petersburg. They won't want to believe it, so they'll try to confirm it. It could be several weeks." Roosevelt turned to Marshall. "General, any military concerns about this?"

Marshall spoke, and as always, Acheson was deeply impressed by the man. "The Russian Pacific Fleet is no longer a concern." Marshall glanced at Halifax, and then at Roosevelt. The President nodded once. Marshall frowned, but continued. "The ground assets we have in Kamchatka and in the Russian Far East tell of an army build up. We are evaluating, but they don't pose any kind of a threat to us without ships to move them. Should you desire, we can take both Petropavlovsk and Vladivostok easily enough, though I'd like to wait for spring." Roosevelt nodded. From the surprised looks around the room, Acheson surmised that he wasn't the only one who hadn't know about 'ground assets' in either Kamchatka or the Russian Far East.

Marshall continued. "On the other front, we are keeping a close eye on Russian naval assets in Murmansk and in the Baltic. We don't have a good view of the Black Sea yet, but are given to understand that the Ottomans would most likely refuse any transit requests of the Russian fleet from Sevastopol, and we've got Gibraltar covered." Marshall frowned. "At the point, we don't have a way of prosecuting any kind of offensive action against European Russia. To do that we would need a base or bases closer to Europe." It was Roosevelt's turn to frown. "Have you given any thought to where such a base might be?" "Either Iceland or what we would call Norway would be best. Both are owned by Denmark here."

Roosevelt turned back to Acheson. "Representatives from Denmark are attending the conference, yes? Perhaps we could offer them something." Acheson answered. "Mr. President," he began formally, "before I answer that, I must one question: What are your intentions towards the current conflict with the Russian Empire." Roosevelt looked back levelly, and seemed more alert. "My intention is to offer them one more chance at peace." Acheson pressed. "And if they refuse?"

Roosevelt answered immediately. "If they refuse, then I will go before the Congress and request a formal declaration of war, whether they recognize us or not. I feel certain I will get that declaration will little difficulty. At that point, we will wage war, Mr. Acheson, war until the threat to the United States has been eliminated." Acheson sat back. He had constitutional concerns about the action Roosevelt had requested, after all, no state of war did yet exist, so could Roosevelt even issue those orders? In the immediate aftermath of the Event, Congress had given Roosevelt carte-blanche – and temporary – authority to have the US armed forces defend the country as he saw fit. The actions against the Russian fleet had been taken under those auspices. A formal Declaration of War would eliminate the concerns that Acheson – and many others – had about the situation.

Acheson glanced over at Halifax. He had no doubt that Halifax would pass along what he heard here today – that was the point of his attendance after all. He only hoped that the British and other powers would listen. Roosevelt was still speaking. "I thank all of your for your time. We will meet again after the Conference to hear from Mr. Acheson about how it went." Roosevelt's attendant's pulled him back from the table, and everyone rose again. As they filed out of the room, Acheson noted Bill Donovan waiting outside the Oval Office.


	12. Scheming and plotting

LEGAL NOTICE: THE TWO GEORGES NOVEL BELONGS TO HARRY TURTLEDOVE AND RICHARD DREYFUSS. THE FOLLOWING STORY IS MIKE TURCOTTE'S. With that out of the way, enjoy!

Washington DC, December 5, 1944

Since coming to the United States (or was it 'America'? Arrogant, these people, thinking that their country alone – no matter how big it was – deserved the name 'America' when the term actually referred to two entire continents), Smythe-Whiting had become more familiar with the place. It was still loud, brash, cluttered and uncultured, but it had its charms as well. There was an unabashed enthusiasm to the place, a can-do spirit that would have bordered on being offensive if it hadn't been so … innocent. The people of the United States, despite the strange world they found themselves in, seemed to think that they could do anything, breach any barrier, overthrow any custom, and that not only was it a good thing to do so, that everyone in world would embrace it as a good idea as well.

That was one of the charms of the place - such naiveté would have been funny – and exploitable – if not backed by the very real tools and technologies that the United States possessed. It was … frustrating … to Smythe-Whiting, and he was sure to his political leadership as well. The Americans – and Smythe-Whiting annoyed himself every time he thought of them that way – were like children, wide-eyed and eager, but with deadly toys as well.

Oh, and movie stars.

Smythe-Whiting had first seen her picture in a 'magazine' that was on the Boeing clipper that had flown him to the Sandwich Islands prior to the battle in the Aleutians. He had been leafing through the 'Life' magazine, goggling at the glossy pictures and articles when he had come across a picture of Rita Hayworth, a Hollywood (Smythe-Whiting was given to understand that Hollywood was a small town near New Liverpool – what the United States called 'Los Angeles' now – where American 'movies' were made) star. Smythe-Whiting had gazed at the picture for he didn't know how long, mesmerized; she was quite simply, the most beautiful woman he had ever seen, and, he suspected, would ever see.

Until he finally flipped through more pages and saw a picture of Lauren Bacall.

Voraciously, he read the articles about them. Americans seemed … inappropriately obsessed … with the personal lives of these women, details of their private lives like what they ate or what clothes they liked. And who they married, and whether they were in love with their husbands, or the co-stars of their latest films. It was all terribly garish to Smythe-Whiting; he was no prude, but the word 'privacy' existed for a reason, and he couldn't imagine anyone being interested in this.

Which didn't stop him from reading every word of both articles.

By the time he got off the Boeing, he was wondering if EVERY woman in America looked like Rita Hayworth and Lauren was quickly disabused of that notion – it turned out that Hollywood movies seemed to have the best looking women – and men, for that matter – and that most Americans were no more or less attractive than anyone course, there were exceptions – like Rita and Lauren – on one end, and exceptions on the other end as well.

Like Eleanor Roosevelt, one of the … less attractive … women that he'd ever seen.

Smythe-Whiting sat in the audience with the other delegates to the conference at the US State Department and listened to Eleanor Roosevelt officially welcome them to the United States. It was understood that her husband – Franklin Roosevelt, the President of the United States, would be attending the conference later, but that a small cold was keeping him bedridden. Eleanor was the 'first lady' of the United States; Smythe-Whiting thought of the position rather like that of a royal consort – though he was unsure why a man in Franklin Roosevelt's position would not select a more attractive First Lady. First Ladies, as it was explained to him, had no official power, but that Eleanor had rather more influence than could see was articulate, passionate, and clearly very bright. She also seemed more ... racially accommodating than most Americans, as she made a special point in her speech welcoming the non-white representatives from both the British Empire and the Alliance.

For his own part, Smythe-Whiting's job had changed. While still a commander in the Royal Navy, he was on semi-permanent detached duty as the official naval liaison to Duke Mortimer. Normally, he would have chafed at such duty; while being assigned to a great noble like the Duke was a great honor, it would offer little chance for personal advancement – or excitement – that Smythe-Whiting craved. Additionally, since Duke Mortimer struck Smythe-Whiting as neither imbecilic nor insane, he doubted that military action against the United States was on the immediate horizon. However, he felt something was different here. Duke Mortimer seemed … different … than many of the other great nobles Smythe-Whiting had known.

On the stage, Eleanor Roosevelt was wrapping up her speech about something that had been forming on the Earth the United States had come from – something called the United was also talking about all of humanity united in peace, so that they may grow and prosper -Whiting carefully held an internal smirk; such naiveté. He had no problems at all with growth and prosperity, none at all. Just so long as that growth and prosperity favored the right bits of humanity of course. He had no doubt that Duke Mortimer felt the same way.

Washington DC, December 9, 1944

"My dear Count Van der Goltz, so wonderful to see you. And tell me, how is the weather in Amsterdam?" Mortimer asked this with rather more levity than he actually felt to the member from the delegation from the Dutch Empire.

The Count in question raised an eyebrow."And how should I know that, your Grace?"

Mortimer quirked a half-smile."Have you ever even been to Amsterdam?"

A snort."Of when I was younger. Just not recently. There are … distractions … in Amsterdam unlike anywhere else in Europe."

Mortimer nodded sagely. The Dutch were as civilized as anyone from Europe, but allowed certain tolerances in some parts of Amsterdam than were simply for interesting times, especially with the younger sort.

The Count continued. "And in winter, Amsterdam is so much warmed than either St. Petersburg or Moscow."

Mortimer nodded sagely again. Both men – and their aides, and a bubble of 'FBI' agents to 'protect' them – were taking advantage of a break in the conference schedule to enjoy a walk in the sun along the Washington 'Mall'. Mortimer had toured – and been suitably impressed with – the various museum displays and exhibits. Not so much the hordes of American school children that were also there; Mortimer would have thought the capital would have been shut down for the conference, but it was not the little monsters had been everywhere – and were even less well-behaved than children in London.

They made having a decent conversation next to impossible.

The 'Dutch' Count was speaking."His Imperial Majesty was distressed to learn about what happened to the Russian Pacific Fleet."

Mortimer said nothing. He imagined that the Russian Tsar had been far more than 'distressed'; perhaps even 'angered'.Mortimer vaguely wondered how many people in St. Petersburg had died as a result of that 'anger'.

"The peace faction is gaining strength at court." The count said, staring at the obelisk of the Washington Monument.

Mortimer shook his head. "We can't have that, my dear still need to see what their Army can do."

Beside him, the Count stiffened. "I think enough lives have been lost already."

Mortimer paused, glancing at the FBI men. None were paying – or at least obviously paying – attention to the two men, and none were close enough to overhear knew that the United States possessed some kind of long-range listening capability; he'd have to take a bit of a risk here; the Russians needed to get this message loud and clear.

"Normally, I would agree; the British Empire has no wish for further loss of life. However, we are in uncharted territory here."

The Count didn't speak for a minute. "His Imperial Majesty is concerned about the growth-"

"His Imperial Majesty the Tsar will bloody well do what he is bloody well told to do," Mortimer Count turned to him, fury in his eyes, but Mortimer met his gaze with calm intensity. The Count opened his mouth to speak, but Mortimer held up a hand.

"You didn't really expect to find the Monastery still there, even if you won, did you?" asked Mortimer. He laughed a bit. "I mean, it was remote, yes, but Alaska? Wouldn't Siberia have done?"

The Count's lips were compressed into a tight, angry line. "It was thought that the further away from St. Petersburg she was, the better. And Alaska was so remote…"

Mortimer shrugged. Nothing the Russian had said was wrong. "And the items?"

The Count sighed unhappily. "With her, of gone – gone to … " he shrugged helplessly "wherever."

Mortimer nodded.

The Count spoke more firmly. "If she were not gone, and you did not have him in London, then you would not be as arrogant as you are."

Mortimer smiled unpleasantly. "But things are as they are Count. She is gone, and he is in London. He's quite comfortable, and, I hear, enjoying himself immensely."

The Count scowled as Mortimer continued. "And stay in London he will, so long as His Imperial Majesty and his government act as they should. If not, then perhaps he would be allowed to return home; an occurrence I'm sure the Tsar and everyone else would like to avoid."

"And the money?"

Mortimer grinned. So predictable, this Count. "The money is as we for the Russian government to prosecute the war, and the funds for your … personal discretion."

The Count nodded, but still looked grim. Mortimer smiled again. "Don't look so glum, Piotr. Petropavlovsk is vulnerable, yes, but Russia's core has always been Europe. I hear from my sources that even the Americans can't reach you without a base, and we'll make sure that no one makes any arrangements that would allow them closer on the Atlantic side." The Count still glowered. "We didn't force the Tsar to attack Alaska, Piotr. We're simply to trying to make the best of a bad situation."

Mortimer spoke more gently."You understand what is needed? Give them a fight in the Far we understand what we need to, I'm sure that you can reach an accommodation with them that is fair."

The Count responded with a short, sharp nod, and strode off. Mortimer let his gaze follow the Count and his retinue for a bit. So much to do there, so much indeed.

Omsk, Russian Empire, December 14, 1944

Mikhail Gusarov shivered as he left the warm train car for the cold of winter. He hated to admit it, but this world's version of the Trans-Siberian railroad featured far nicer train cars than those of the Soviet Union. There were of course first-class cars for the nobles, and the Communist in Gusarov fumed at the inequality. However, even the commoner cars were fairly comfortable, and well-sealed against the Russian cold.

Leaving Kamchatka had been far easier than Gusarov had thought. He'd been nervous when the Rangers had received the radio transmission; he was to travel to Moscow to wait for further instructions. How those instructions were to be delivered was unknown, but he was given a codename that a contact would use – "Mikhail Frunze". It amused Gusarov to no end that the great hero of the Red Army was now a code name for the plutocrats of America.

The US Rangers had given him a quantity of gold and silver ingots. Gusarov had taken the money, left the Rangers, and simply walked into Petropavlovsk. Once there, it had not taken him long to find merchants more than happy to trade paper Rubles for a small amount of his silver, and Gusarov had realized that he had become a wealthy man by the standards of this world's Russian Empire.

He was still struggling with that a bit.

From there, purchasing a train ticket was easy. There was nothing like the internal security apparatus that had existed in the Soviet Union, and no one had questioned him. On this world, the Russians had extended a line from Kharbovsk through Magadan and down Kamchatka to Petropavlovsk. A herculean effort, and from what Gusarov could tell, to support a naval base.

Gusarov and the US Rangers had watched the tattered remains of the Russian fleet limp back into Petropavlovsk. The radio had let them know of the battle's outcome; seeing it in person had driven the reality of the defeat home. Boarding the train, Gusarov had found himself with a fascinating mixture of old and young, rich and poor. The train car was a microcosm of the Russian Empire, and Gusarov felt at home for the first time in years.

As the train emptied for a rest stop in Omsk, Gusarov looked around wondered about the future.

Washington DC, December 16, 1944

Grinning broadly, Mortimer took a large, ostentatious bite of his hot dog. As with the other hot dogs Mortimer had the misfortune to taste, this one was awful; a cheap soggy bun encircling a cheap soggy salty length of almost-sausage so revolting in taste that had the Royal Navy served it to its men, it would have been grounds for justifiable was able to control his reaction however; this was not the first hot dog he'd had.

And given all the camera flashbulbs going off in his face, held by what was called the 'Washington Press Corps', it was a good thing he did. He had a job to do, and grimacing at the taste of this American delicacy – no matter how awful – would not have furthered that job.

After an almost interminable few moments of flashbulbs going off, Mortimer's eyes cleared enough for him to see the frantically waving hands of the were pressing forward in an utterly undignified manner, and waving their arms in the air for attention like small children at a candy searched for the familiar faces the US State Department had recommended to him, and point at one."You sir. And please let me know your name and organization." Mortimer grinned. "I don't believe that I'll remember all of them – or you – for that matter, but I do promise to try. "That brought laughter, and the man Mortimer had pointed to stood up.

"Ernie Pyle, Scripps-Howard. Is it true that you have been appointed to be Ambassador from the British Empire to the United States?"

Mortimer nodded. "Yes, Mr. Pyle, it you know, the Conference has, thus far, been a resounding success, and the British Empire – and many other states – have extended official diplomatic recognition to the United States. His Majesty's government was pleased to appoint me as its first Ambassador to the United States, and, on a purely level, I was very pleased to accept the post." Mortimer's friends and political allies had been surprised when the Duke had put forth the idea of becoming Ambassador; that was far too lowly a post for one of his stature – but the Duke had been insistent. He needed to be here, in Washington, to manage the next few years. The United States was far too dangerous for an amateur, and this had to be handled properly."On a related note, I would like to, both personally and on behalf of the King-Emperor, thank Earl Halifax for his help over the last few months."

Another hand shot up, and the Duke nodded at it."Walter Cronkite, United Press. What are the next steps for Britain and the United States?"

Us finding a way to put you in your place, you insolent puppy, thought Mortimer, but carefully did not say. Instead, he grinned, and took another bite of his hot dog, leading to another lightning flurry of flashbulbs. He chewed and swallowed, remarkably without a full-scale digestive revolt. "I am pleased to say that several business leaders from throughout the Empire are arriving in the United States even now. We look forward to welcoming your own businessmen as well." He grinned conspiratorially. "One thing that is true as much as it was in the world you came from is that everyone likes to make money." Mortimer waited while a chuckle ran through the reporters."You have technical expertise in many areas," Mortimer couldn't believe how open the United States was being with its technology. He snorted internally – they were fools. "and we have a variety of trade items as well – from raw materials to finished goods of our look forward to many mutually beneficial arrangements, both at the individual and company levels."

Another hand, another point. "Eric Sevareid, CBS News. What can you tell us about the war with Russia?"

Mortimer frowned. That it will be going on until you show us what your army can do, and to distract you from all the things that I'm going to be engineering over the next bit. "The British Empire regrets that the Tsar has reacted in the way that he has. Peace is the goal here, , when it comes to direct US policy here, I must defer to the Secretary of State." Mortimer waved at Dean Acheson, who was standing behind another podium."From the Empire's perspective, what I can say is that we offer our good offices to resolve this conflict as quickly as possible."

The press conference continued, and the Duke's stomach did rumble. For the next conference, he resolved not to eat any more hot dogs.

Washington DC, December 17, 1944

Halifax sat with Count Van der Goltz in the Dutch Embassy. It was odd; the 'Dutch' from the world the United States had come from still owned the place, but were working out a deal with the Dutch from this Earth to transfer it. Apparently, in the 1850's, there'd been a mini-civil war in this world's equivalent of Holland; as with so many states here, the imperialists had won, aided by the 'nobles' of the Dutch East Indies. Indeed the ambassador the Dutch Empire had sent – Jaan Sukarhto – was a mixed-blood native of Java.

That the Count wasn't, in fact Dutch, was a polite fiction; everyone knew he was Russian, and it was expected that the Americans would as well. It had been a distinctly non-trivial task for Halifax to convince the FBI to leave the man alone; a communication pipeline to the Tsar was so useful, especially given the lack of reliable of trans-Atlantic cables.

Now, both men sat in a small study, sunlight streaming in and illuminating them. The Count looked Russian to Halifax; broad features on a large head set on a powerful body. The business suit he wore was perfectly tailored; as with so much in this world, image was everything.

"Thank you for coming, Earl Halifax, I appreciate the time." The Count spoke almost accent-less English. Given that it was Halifax who'd actually asked for the meeting, the Count was being polite.

Halifax nodded."Thank you for meeting with me as well, Count Van Der Goltz."

The Count smiled. "Ever since the United States arrived, we in the diplomatic corps of all nations have had to get used to the … directness … of their manner of speaking. While irritating, it does have the virtue of saving that vein, and for this conversation only, perhaps you and I might dispense with the idea that I am, or have anything to do with the Dutch."

Halifax responded with a smile of his own. "Very might I call you, sir?"

The Count smiled. "Piotr is fine for now, since we are both men of quality."

"Well, then, Piotr, I am going into this with the understanding that you can make yourself heard at court in St. Petersburg."

Piotr nodded. "That is a safe assumption, My Lord."A slight grimace."The speed with which I can communicate is not what it was, but I can 'make myself heard' as you put it."

"Good." The Earl paused, and drew himself up."Then you need to communicate to Moscow – I mean St. Petersburg – that this war with the United States needs to end – now – before it gets out of hand."

'Piotr' blinked at the Earl's directness. "It is already a fight-"

Halifax gently interrupted. "No, it is Americans sank your fleet – effortlessly I might add – but it doesn't have to continue." He paused, and then spoke again."I have been assured by the American government that they have no desire to continue this if the Russian Empire apologizes and grants diplomatic recognition to them."

"St. Petersburg doesn't see it that way."

"Then you need to make them see it," said Halifax. "The Americans are gearing up for an invasion of the Russian Far East when the weather clears. You will not be able to stop them."

Piotr grimaced. "That may be, if their army is as advanced as their navy. But it doesn't matter; Russia can always defeat an invader – winter in Siberia is not so nice. Even if we lose Petropavlovsk and Vladivostok, it is thousands of miles to the Russian core, and even the Americans can't easily advance over thousands of miles of Siberia."

Earl Halifax closed his eyes, and opened them slowly. "Piotr, I urge you in the strongest possible terms to reconsider your Roosevelt – the American President – is considering asking their Congress for a formal declaration of war. If that happens, then there is no way to stop this."

"They can't get at European Russian, and as I have said-"

"You're not listening, Piotr." Earl Halifax sighed. "I am sorry to be so blunt, but you must hear me. The 'hows' of the fight are irrelevant; the Americans will find a way to prosecute the war. What you need to understand is that if the US Congress does in fact issue a formal declaration of war, then Roosevelt will also be forced to demand your unconditional surrender."

Piotr looked confused. "Unconditional surrender? What does that mean?"

Halifax signed again. How to get this across? "Piotr, your world is not like ours. You've had far fewer wars than we have. Most of the wars I've read about here end after a few battles, with the victor taking a few colonies or indemnities of some other kind from the loser. Then everyone goes home. That's not what the Americans will do."

"What will they do?"

"They will bring their full might to bear." Halifax had spoken to Dean Acheson about this meeting, and he needed to be clear with the Russians."They will wage what we call 'total war' with the goal being the comprehensive and total defeat of the Russian Empire. They will not stop until they stand in the Winter Palace or the Kremlin and dictate terms." Halifax placed one hand gently on the Count's forearm. "I can guarantee those terms will not include the continued rule of the Russian nobility."

Piotr's eyes went wide. "Surely they would not replace His Imperial Majesty-"

"Piotr, if the war is bad enough, they may hang His Imperial Majesty." Halifax was blunt. "The best – the very best – the Tsar could hope for in that case would be a prison someplace in the United States. The Americans will, at the very least, replace the current Russian government with one that they find acceptable – probably a republic. Given Russia's vast size, they may break it into many states-"

"His Imperial Majesty was appointed by God to rule all the Russias!"

"The Americans don't see it that way. And since God saw fit to send them here, perhaps your thinking needs a revision." Halifax was placating."They don't regard nobility as anything special Piotr. Any ground war with you would end in their victory, yes, but even they would take casualties. They are newcomers here, a republic surrounded by empires, and they are aware that the only thing keeping them independent is the power of their military. If you challenge them, then they will have to demonstrate – not just to you but to all here, that they are serious. Remember the observers they allowed with their fleet in the Aleutians – it is the same here." Halifax paused."And if you force them to fight, if you inflict casualties, if you make them expend the effort and treasure to defeat you - then the Russian Empire will cease to exist." Halifax sat back.

"That is the message your Tsar needs to hear, Piotr, that one. Make sure that he does, for everyone's sake."

Smythe-Whiting was standing in Duke Mortimer's study, staring at mouth was fixed in an involuntary grin as he contemplated what the Duke had just told him to do.

And to think, he'd been worried that he'd be bored.


	13. Getting caught in the rain

**LEGAL NOTICE: THE TWO GEORGES NOVEL BELONGS TO HARRY TURTLEDOVE AND RICHARD DREYFUSS. THE FOLLOWING STORY IS MIKE TURCOTTE'S. With that out of the way, enjoy!**

* * *

 _ **January 12, 1945  
Camp Forrest, Tullahoma, Tennessee, United States of America  
**_  
The summons came when Oberstleutnant Karl Gustav Stuwe was playing what seemed like his 10,000th game of chess. Outside Barrack Hall #17, the night was cold and the wind roared in from the mountains. The barracks was reasonably well insulated, with cheery coal fires burning to keep the troops warm – and even the worst Tennessee winter couldn't compare with what Stuwe had experienced in Russia in 1941 and 1942, so he was comfortable enough. He was contemplating his next move – Kapitan Heinrich Halle had used a knight to threaten both Stuwe's queen and one of his rooks – leaving the Oberstleutnant with few good options for his next move.

While he studied the chess board, Stuwe's thoughts turned – as they often did – to his circumstances. He had joined the Wehrmacht early – in 1937 – where his family's connections had helped him secure an officer's commission. Intensive training, and native ability had landed him in the Reich's growing Panzer forces, and he'd been in charge of a platoon of the machines in 1939 in Poland. From there, he moved through the Reich's conquests – in 1940 in France, and then Yugoslavia, and then the Soviet Union. He'd been wounded outside of Smolensk in early 1942, after enduring what was the worst winter he could have imagined, and after convalescence in a military hospital outside of Hannover, had leapt at the chance to join the famed Afrika Korps.

He figured Libya and Egypt would be warmer than the Soviet Union.

He had arrived in time to take a Panzer company in Rommel's last offensive against the British 8th Army. He was still wistful about Egypt; he thought they could have won there, despite the protestations of Rommel's supply officers about port capacity in Tobruk and Benghazi. From there, the long retreat across Libya – and then came Operation Torch, and in the chaos of Tunisia in 1943, he'd been captured by the Americans.

And now he was in Tennessee. Waiting out the was he? Back in late May, the night sky had been rent with flash of light, and the sky had glowed with an otherworldly blue light for several minutes. The people in the camp – POWs and guards alike – had stared at that sky in wonder, but after a few minutes it had faded, and the normal stars had – and others – had dismissed the incident as some kind of weird heat lightning – and gone back to bed.

The next day, Stuwe had managed to get himself assigned to a work detail – as an officer, he got to oversee several enlisted German POWs working to maintain a storm-damaged country road. It was a plum assignment for a POW – the endless monotony of the camp broken by honest work in nice weather – but they'd barely gotten started when the strangest scene ever arrived.

There'd only been two guards with the POWs – there was little chance of a POW breakout here – when down the road had come a company of US Marines in full battle gear. Stuwe recognized the look – but had been utterly baffled – the men approaching him had been in where in Tennessee would US Marines find combat? The answer startled him. The Marines had approached the German POWs with guns at the ready, and shouting absurd things about the Japanese and New Guinea. One of the guards was an ex-Marine, and he managed to the get the young Lieutenant in charge of the marine unit calmed down. The Marines had claimed that just the day before they'd been in New Guinea, fighting the Japanese.

This was, of course, absurd. The German POWs – after the claims of the lieutenant had been translated - had even guffawed at that; these men had clearly been escapees from some American mental institution. Stuwe had not laughed; he'd seen enough combat to recognize the look of men who'd been in fights, and these Marines had the tired, hard-bitten look of men used to dealing in death. One other POW had been quiet as well; Private Kaufmann was a bit of an amateur horticulturist, and pointed out that a particular palm frond caught in one Marine's backpack straps was distinctly tropical in nature.

Soon enough, an Army truck arrived, called in by radio from one of the guards. The driver of the ruck and the US Army Captain with him looked haunted; apparently something VERY strange had happened that May night. The Marines, after some talking, climbed into the back of the truck, and it sped away, leaving the bemused POWs to their road work.

It was two months later, with the POWs marking strange changes in the attitudes of their guards – and the sudden cessation of Red Cross visits – that the camp commander called everyone together. He announced, on that hot July afternoon, that something strange had happened; that somehow the United States had been transferred to an alternate version of Earth the night of the blue light. Their families, their friends, the Reich itself – all were gone, replaced by what the commandant called 'primitive imperialists'. The frankly skeptical POWs hadn't believed him, but shortly thereafter, radios were brought into the mess hall and some of the barracks. Most of the POWs had at least a smattering of English, and the radio reports astounded them. Franklin Roosevelt made a special address to the US Congress on August 1, outlining what was known, and the magical appearance of the US Marines was revealed to be but one occurrence of mass relocations of the US Armed Forces.

From there, the reports of skirmishes between the US Army and forces of the 'Holy Alliance' in 'New Spain', the conferences in London with a seemingly mighty British Empire, and the battle against the Imperial Russian Fleet in the waters off of the Aleutian Islands were heard. Roosevelt's re-election had occurred, and the POWs watched the Tennessee foliage fade from summer's glory to autumn's colorful brilliance.

Morale in the camp had plummeted. The men had relied on the Red Cross and other agencies for news from home, and the utter cessation of contact with families had been devastated to men already defeated in battle and captured. That the Reich was replaced by a Germany of many states like something out of the Middle Ages was gut-clenching; to learn that the world was divided between a huge British Empire and a Franco-Spanish 'Holy Alliance' was almost laughable. Stuwe – and the POWs had learned that the technology of this world was far behind that of the world they had come from, and the United States had handily defeated a Russian battlefleet in the Pacific.

Some didn't believe it, of course. They thought that the blue light, the Marines, the radio broadcasts – that all had been faked as part of some strange American plot to gain some advantage over the German POWs. Stuwe didn't think so. The American personnel at the camp hadn't changed, and they weren't the high quality sorts that would be entrusted with such an elaborate deception. Also, Stuwe could discern no motive for the Americans to do this.

In November, the camp commandant had called the POW officers together. He had bluntly said that since the Reich was gone, the US Government was struggling with an answer as to what to do with the POWs. A program was in the works, they were told, so abide a bit longer. New and more relaxed rules for the POWs were put into place, and one thing that was apparently going to be offered was a chance at US citizenship. Most of the officers had been agog at that; for the United States to even contemplate offering citizenship … something drastic HAD occurred.

So Stuwe – and the other POWs had little to do but fret. And as winter's chill set in, cabin fever arose. There was nothing to do – no news from home – and the POWs dangled in a miserable half-existence, wondering what would happen to them – Stuwe no less than anyone else.

Thus, when the door of Barracks Hall #17 slammed open, Stuwe and the other POWs looked up in surprise – any break in the daily routine was cause for surprise. Stuwe was shocked when the American guard called his name. He stood and moved towards the door. He couldn't imagine what was wanted of him.

As he moved through the rows of bunks, the scowling face of SS Hauptmann Otto Krantz glowered at him. Krantz – and some other SS (who all looked like poster boys for Hitlerjugend to Stuwe) – were among the most fervent denialists in the camp. They were confident that the Reich – and their beloved Fuhrer – would soon be storming the beaches of the United States to rescue them. Such idiocy only cemented in the Stuwe's mind the stupidity of the Nazis. He'd known the Reich was taking a huge gamble fighting just the Soviet Union and the British. To add America to that mix – well, Stuwe remembered the trip from Africa to the United States. His ship had – after a remarkably smooth and untroubled trip across the Atlantic (according to Goebbels, the Atlantic was all but closed to Allied shipping by swarms of U-Boats, but Stuwe had seen none of that) – deposited him and the other POWs in Boston. From there, a train had taken him from Boston, through Providence and along the Connecticut shore of the Long Island Sound. New York City had been glimpsed, and then over the Hudson and into New Jersey, through endless factories and fields to the mighty industrial hub of Philadelphia, and then south to Tennessee. The trip had been long, and had taught Stuwe something important; the Reich had been insane to think that it could fight the United States. Stuwe had seen only a tiny part of America, and knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that the Reich was doomed.

Stuwe stepped down the stairs to the frozen ground, careful not to slip. He was far more curious than afraid; the American guard wasn't even armed, and didn't seem at all nervous or menacing as they left the POW area for the camp commander's office. Outside the office, a bevy of what looked staff cars had pulled up, and two men dressed in odd clothing were standing outside. Stuwe barely had time to glance at them as he entered the warm office. Inside was the camp commander, Colonel Davis, two aides, a civilian who looked to be from the American government, and finally a figure that Stuwe thought at first was an actor in full theater garb.

Stuwe blinked in the bright lights of the commander's office. Colonel Davis was relaxed behind his desk, a bemused look on his face. His aides were also in seats; the civilian was standing by the Colonel's desk. All were looking at the actor, who was hovering over a small radio. A cacophonous medley of noise was coming through the speaker, as the 'actor' adjusted the volume and station knobs seemingly at random. He appeared to be almost giggling at the radio. Stuwe was confused, and took a seat after Colonel Davis pointed him to one.

Whatever they wanted him for, he wasn't in trouble. Davis dismissed the guard, and after a few moments cleared his throat. There was no reaction from the actor until the civilian spoke up.

"Count von Kroy?"

The actor froze, and stopped fiddling with the radio. He stood, and turned to face the room. Stuwe stared at the figure. He looked like something out of the eighteenth century, dressed in old-fashioned nobleman's clothes, and something about the red griffin rampant on a field of blue and white on the actor's blousy shirt tugged at Stuwe's memory.

"Count von Kroy," the civilian said in decent German, "the man we discussed is here."

The 'Count' took in Stuwe's appearance while one of Davis' aides reached over and shut off the radio."You are Herr Stuwe?" he asked in perfect German.

Stuwe looked back steadily."Yes.I am Oberstleutnant Karl Gustav Stuwe of the German Army."

"Err … yes, my apologies Oberstleutnant. from the State Department – " the man said, nodding at the civilian – "gave me the particulars of your file. You must understand I am unused to the finer points of military ranks from where you come."

Stuwe stared back. The actor seemed to be expecting something. The civilian from the State Department spoke. "Oberstleutnant, my name is Charles Kohn, and I'm from the US State Department. I know this is strange, so I'll get to the point. You are from Stralsund, correct?"

Stuwe nodded. This was all in his file. He regarded the State Department man warily. He was very neat, very well dressed, but his eyes held a certain light that made Stuwe distrust him almost immediately.

Kohn continued. "And you are in the German Army, but not a member of the Nazi Party, correct?"

Again Stuwe nodded.

"And finally, Oberstleutnant, prior to the war, you managed a branch of your family's industrial business – specifically naval engines – correct?"

Stuwe looked hard at Kohn. "Yes, that is correct. And before you ask what I am sure you are interested in, yes, my family's firm supplied the German Navy."

Kohn smiled. "No, Oberstleutnant, I am not interested in what your family may or may not have supplied to the German Navy." He snorted. "In fact, you can probably not imagine how militantly uninterested I am in that right now."

Stuwe looked confused, which was easy to do because he was confused.

"Now then," Kohn continued, "Please allow me to present to you Count Paul von Kroy, who has just been appointed as Ambassador to the United States from the Grand Duchy of Pomerania."

Stuwe's mouth fell open. Now he remembered that Griffin – it was the ancient symbol of Pomerania. He spoke without thinking. "The Grand Duchy of Pomerania?"

Colonel Davis' mouth quirked at Stuwe's obvious discomfiture. Von Kroy puffed himself up. His chest was liberally bedecked with medals – some were terribly garish to Stuwe's eyes – and he looked like a circus ringmaster. "Yes, I represent His Grace, Duke Michel of the Restored House of Griffins."

Stuwe literally didn't know what to say. "Restored?" he finally croaked.

"Yes, and recognized by all as the legitimate ruler of the Grand Duchy since the Congress of 1836, and as the true heir to George I." Von Kroy answered quickly, as if he were afraid Stuwe would mount some legal challenge to Duke Michel's legitimacy. Not that Stuwe had the slightest idea who George I was. Von Kroy turned to Kohn. "And now by the United States as well."

Kohn nodded."Yes, please remember Count von Kroy, that the Oberstleutnant is currently classified as a Prisoner of War by the United States government. He has had limited contact with the outside world, and may be unaware of the latest news."

Davis spoke up."And that is what we here to discuss." He turned to Stuwe."As you know, Oberstleutnant, ever since the Event in May, the United States has been undecided as to what to do with POWs such as yourself. Quite frankly, the polity you are from – Germany – does not exist in this world, and we had no official contact with any of the countless states that make up what we would think of as Germany."

Kohn spoke."That situation has changed. Recently, since the Russian fleet suffered its little mishap in the Aleutians, the various states that make up this world have started extending official diplomatic recognition to us. This includes –" Kohn nodded at von Kroy "the Grand Duchy of Pomerania."

Stuwe had been at best an indifferent student of history, but he knew that Stralsund was in Pomerania."And this impacts me how, if I may ask?"

"Well, the US State Department is initiating a kind of pilot program for POWs," said Kohn.

"Pilot program?" asked Stuwe.

"Well, the United States – and like it or not, Oberstleutnant, the world out there regards you as an American – is desirous of increasing contacts between us and the other polities of this world. Pomerania wants this as well – frankly your skill set would be invaluable to them – and it would get you out of here."

Stuwe blinked."I'm sorry, Mr. Kohn, am I to understand that you want me to act as an agent of the United States?"

Kohn answered."In a way, yes. You see Oberstleutnant-"

"Sir, I may be a POW, and I am not a Nazi, but I am a patriot. I have no particular love for the United States, and certainly would not betray Germans – any Germans, even if they call themselves Pomeranians – in your service."

Kohn held up a placating hand."Please, Oberstleutnant, you misunderstand.I am not asking you to act in any particular political manner, and I am certainly not asking you to betray anyone. However, please understand - the war - the war between the United States and Hitler - that war is over. What I – what the US Government wants – and what the Grand Duchy has offered – is a way for you to return to Stralsund. When there, you would serve as an advisor to certain leadership and business interests in the Grand Duchy. In return, we would ask for your help in negotiations between American business interests and certain interested parties in the Grand Duchy." At Stuwe's look he smiled."The US Government would supply you with a certain amount of currency to establish yourself, and provide a stipend to maintain your station in Pomerania."

Stuwe stared.

Von Kroy spoke."His Grace has heard all about you, Herr Stuwe, and is especially interested in your arrival."

Stuwe looked at Kohn."So let me get this straight – you want me to serve as the United States ambassador to the … the … Grand Duchy of Pomerania?"

Kohn laughed."Not at all, Oberstleutnant. That's my job. I'm going to be the ambassador. What we want from you is just a little local help. And a way of resolving this terrible POW problem. "He waved at the walls of Davis' office."You can't actually like it here, Oberstleutnant, and while the US government is being wary where the hard-core Nazis are concerned, we see a way to make things better for you." He sighed."You described yourself as a patriot a moment ago, Oberstleutnant. Think of it this way – you're not so much helping Uncle Sam as you are blazing a trail to freedom for all the other German POWs trapped here."

Stuwe pursed his lips. Kohn seemed too … competent … for a post as mere ambassador to one of 'countless' German statelets, but there was no way to pursue that here. Additionally, Stuwe couldn't believe that Kohn gave a good goddamn about German POWs.

"I'll tell you what, Oberstleutnant. Take a day to think about give Colonel Davis your decision." He stood, and put on his coat. He shook Stuwe's hand, and departed the office, von Kroy in tow.

Stuwe and Davis followed them to the porch of the commander's office. The two men Stuwe had noted earlier were obviously part of von Kroy's retinue. They bundled into the staff cars Stuwe had seen earlier and motored off.

"You don't really need a day to think about this, do you?" asked Davis.

Stuwe was silent for a moment. He and Davis weren't friends by any means, but the camp commander had always been decent and professional in their dealings. Stuwe contemplated the bleak barracks through the Tennessee night. "No. Of course I want to get out of here."

He started down the steps towards Barracks #17. "Please tell Mr. Kohn that I accept his offer."

Davis nodded.

At the bottom of the steps, Stuwe turned back to Davis."Tell me Colonel, this 'pilot program' – how widely available is it?"

"An interesting question."Davis shrugged."I've been speaking to several other camp commanders. A few people have been offered this. "He paused."Interestingly enough, all from Pomerania."

Stuwe stopped again, and looked up at Davis. "All?"

Davis shoved his hands in his pockets and nodded."Hell of a thing, isn't it? Pomerania. I guess you're just lucky that the State Department picked that place."

Stuwe nodded and walked didn't know what was going on, but he didn't believe luck had anything to do with it.

No, nothing at all, he was sure.

* * *

 **** ** _ **January 20, 1945  
Alexandria, Virginia, United States of America  
**_** **  
In a gorgeous old colonial house in Alexandria, Duke Mortimer welcomed his guests into his day room. Earl Halifax had offered to make the old British Embassy available to Mortimer and his staff, but the Duke had demurred. There were still plenty of 'British' citizens from the old world in the United States that relied on Earl Halifax's embassy, and until a permanent solution was worked out, it made sense to keep the two 'British' embassies separate.**

 **Besides, Mortimer needed privacy.**

 **For now, the British had leased a magnificent home in Alexandria for their purposes. They were in the process of finding a permanent embassy in Washington itself, but even after that was done, Mortimer planned on keeping this residence. It suited him. Oh, it needed extensive re-decoration, and separate facilities for the servants Mortimer needed, but all in all it was very nice. Large windows overlooked the Potomac river, and once spring arrived, Mortimer had been assured that the various bushes and trees would provide a dazzling array of colors. He could hardly wait.**

 **But all of that must be put aside for now. Smiling broadly, Mortimer indicated chairs set around a gorgeously appointed table. Sunlight streamed through the windows, providing a warm glow, not that the house's heating system needed that much help. Piled high with fine foods, and wines shipped over from the Duke's personal townhouse in London, it was a scene fit for the nobility in the room.**

 **The guests all sat, and Mortimer did as well. Finding Help here had been difficult, as most Americans were simply not up to the standards that Mortimer demanded, but trial and error had helped him arrive at some who were. They would do until enough of Mortimer's own staff arrived from the meantime, they filled Mortimer's – and guest's – wine glasses, and then waited for Mortimer to dismiss them.**

 **For now though, Mortimer limited the conversation to pleasant nothings until the staff was finished, and then waved them out. Diplomatic niceties aside, Mortimer would not put it past that oh-so-unpleasant Hoover man to have some 'FBI' agents inserted into his domestic staff.**

 **For twenty minutes after the staff left, the conversation was light and genial – a breathe of civilized style and behavior amongst the boors of America, and Mortimer reveled in the discussions of the best vintages, the best horses, and the latest fashions from Europe. However pleasant the sun was, work did need to be done, and with a sigh, Mortimer sat back in his chair. His guests – civilized men all – recognized that their host wished to speak on a matter of substance, and the conversation quieted down.**

 **Mortimer waited and then smiled."Well, gentlemen, as I said, thank you so much for coming."**

 **Baron Pedro Acosta of Algoria spoke with a smile."When the British make such a request, how can we refuse?"**

 **Mortimer gave a small laugh."You are too kind, Pedro. And how is Lisbon?"**

 **Acosta shrugged."Confused – and a little apprehensive, but isn't everyone these days?"**

 **Nods all around the table; the arrival of the United States would do that, after all. Mortimer spoke again."Well, gentlemen, I'll get right to British Empire is very concerned about the war between the United States and the Russian Empire."**

 **Count Olaf Holm of Arhus looked confused."I thought that the British had adopted a policy of strict neutrality in the matter. Has that changed?"**

 **Mortimer smiled."Not at is that very policy of neutrality I'd like to discuss." He leaned forward a bit."The British government feels that it would be … best for all involved if this affair remained strictly between the United States and the Tsar."**

 **Duke Haas of Rotterdam looked up."I'm sorry, Your Grace, but what do you mean?"**

 **Mortimer pursed his lips, and then stood moved over to a large flowering plant of some kind, and pretended to examine its colorful petals."What I am saying, well, I don't think it is any secret that their President Roosevelt will be asking their Congress for a formal Declaration of War next week."**

 **Nods all around.**

 **"** **When he does," Mortimer continued, "we expect the Americans to attack the Russian Far East. That is outside of our collective areas of concern – frankly they are both welcome to North Pacific and the frozen wastelands of Alaska and Siberia."**

 **More nods. Of course, it was VERY unlikely Alaska would be any kind of a battle ground any time soon. Still, nothing in the Russian Far East mattered to anyone in the room.**

 **"** **So what do you mean?" asked Haas.**

 **Mortimer dropped the petal he'd been examining, and turned to Haas."I have it on good authority that the United States will seek to open a 'second front' to use their vernacular against the Tsar. That means they need a base to attack European Russia."**

 **Haas frowned."They already have ships off Murmansk."**

 **Mortimer nodded."Yes, they do, and we expect them to use their airplanes to from those carrier vessels to attack the Russian Navy there. However it is my understanding that they need a real base – and land base – closer to Russia to stage any real attacks against them – like land invasions."**

 **More looked up."Ah, I think I understand the membership of this little group now. We are the powers – well, all but one of the powers, with an Atlantic flank."**

 **Mortimer smiled. "Precisely."**

 **Acosta looked up."Your Grace, are you telling us to ignore the United States? We just extended diplomatic recognition to them – as did the British Empire."**

 **Mortimer gave a placating nod."Not at all." He drew himself up. "The British Empire would never presume to dictate policy to your sovereigns, not at all." He then proceeded to do just that. Mortimer represented the British, after all."We fully expect you to do commercial business with them – after all we are." He shrugged."They have much they can teach us, and there is money to be made. However, we do not believe it is in anyone's best interest to reach any kind of … political … settlement with the United States that allows them to utilize your territory for … let us just say 'non-commercial' purposes."**

 **There was dead silence in the broke it."So, what you are saying is that we can trade with the Americans, but not make any military deals with them."**

 **Mortimer frowned."Again, we are not trying to dictate policy here, but we do feel it is for the best. Please view my small suggestion as nothing more than a recommendation." He shrugged."This war between the United States and Russia cannot last. The United States has nothing to gain, and well, I wouldn't want to be in Russia when the winter comes. Even in their world, no one could take the Russians in winter, regardless of their technology."**

 **More spoke again."And how strongly does London feel about your 'recommendation' Your Grace?"**

 **Mortimer let a little steel into his voice."Very strongly, very strongly indeed."**

 **Again, silence fell over the let it linger and then smiled brightly."Well, enough of that gentlemen. Thank you so much for coming, and I hope to see all of you again soon."**

 **Dismissed, the men filed out. Acosta Haas and Holm left, Mortimer nodded at – and its Empire – had long been a thorn in the side of the Spanish, and, as such, enjoyed almost unqualified British support.**

 **"** **Your Grace, I could not help but notice a glaring exception to your guest list this afternoon."**

 **Mortimer smiled. "The Alliance."**

 **Acosta nodded."Yes, your Grace, the Alliance. Might they make some kind of political arrangement with the United States?"**

 **Mortimer's smile grew even broader."Oh, don't worry about the Alliance. I have a plan to keep them from making any deals."  
Acosta smiled, nodded, and left Mortimer standing in the sunlight.**

 **"** **Plans, indeed." Mortimer said quietly to himself as he turned back to the snowy vista of the Potomac. He couldn't wait for spring.**

* * *

 ****

 ** _ **January 21, 1945**_**

 _ **Near Cartagena, Spanish colony of Grande Columbia  
**_  
"Beggin' your pardon, sir, but this wouldn't fool my idiot brother-in-law, and he's too dumb to pick his own nose."

Smythe-Whiting grinned and turned back to Master Sergeant McKay. Like all the men with Smythe-Whiting. McKay wore nondescript clothes, and had blackened his face with ash. The night outside of Cartagena was dark, and there were few gas-lights here, but it never paid to be lazy or sloppy.

McKay was an interesting character. One of the NCOs who provided the backbone of the British Army, McKay had been recommended to Smythe-Whiting by an old friend in Kingston, when he'd been assembling the team. McKay – and his men – had experience in what had been termed 'non-traditional' methods of warfare.

Smythe-Whiting was delighted with McKay so far. A quiet-seeming man, McKay's modest exterior overlay a fierce Scottish warrior, a man who delighted in challenge – any challenge. When he'd arrived in Jamaica, Smythe-Whiting had wanted someone like McKay. The small torpedo boats that had taken them from Kingston to the beach near Cartagena had given Smythe-Whiting a chance to brief McKay on certain elements of the mission. McKay had reasonably expected that the British raiding force – because that what it was – would head for the Spanish naval hadn't done anything of the sort. Instead, Smythe-Whiting had led them to a large country house overlooking the Caribbean Sea. It was clearly the residence of a major noble. It would have been heavily guarded, but the noble in question wasn't there at the moment – the house was empty. Two not-terribly-alert Spanish naval men had been at the front gate – their bodies were now cooling in shallow graves in the jungle, courtesy of McKay and one of his men.

"Whatever do you mean, Mr. McKay?" Smythe-Whiting was grinning.

"Well sir, I'm not an expert or anything, but this-" he held up a jagged piece of metal with an American flag stenciled on it –"isn't right. Even I know the bloody flag those bloody ex-colonials use has 48 stars on it – this one has only 46."

Still grinning, Smythe-Whiting took the piece of metal and pretended to examine it, before handing it back to McKay."I do believe you are correct, Master Sergeant."

"Then sir, we can't leave this here – I got no respect for the Dagos, but even they'll figure this out-"

"Bloody Hell!" McKay was interrupted by the harsh whisper of one of his men, crouched over a large canvas bag.

McKay spun, almost reptile-fast, to face the man."What is it, Alston?" Alston held up another jagged piece of metal. McKay took it, looked at it and swore. He handed it to Smythe-Whiting. "Somebody back in Kingston bollocks us up, sir. Look here." Still grinning, Smythe-Whiting looked at the metal scrap."What is the issue? McKay looked oddly at exaggerated patience, he took the metal piece and showed it to Smythe-Whiting."See here sir, this writing?" Smythe-Whiting looked at it, "HMS Swiftsu – and then it gets cut off." He grinned again."Why what could be the problem now?"

McKay still looked confused."Sir, again, beggin' your pardon, but the Dagos will see this and know it is from the HMS Swiftsure."The Swiftsure was a 'fast' cruiser, recently assigned to the British fleet in Jamaica. Of course, compared to the American ships, it was a wallowing tub, but it was fast compared to everyone else.

Smythe-Whiting looked thoughtful."You know, I do believe that you are correct, Master Spanish will indeed be able to conclude that this metal shard came from the Swiftsure." Smythe-Whiting tossed the piece back to Alston."Be sure to spread the contents of that bag evenly, sailor." Alston stared at Smythe-Whiting, but did as he was told.

McKay's eyes bored into Smythe-Whiting who continued to view the nocturnal proceedings with an aloof eye.

McKay turned to watch over the operation. Half his men were scattering 'debris' over the lawn outside of the hacienda, the other half were almost done planting enough explosive to blow the place sky-high. McKay was tapping his lip thoughtfully. He turned to Smythe-Whiting."So sir, can ask a question?" Smythe-Whiting nodded. "Of course, Master Sergeant, ask away." "So we come here, to Grande Columbia, where the Dagos have a big fleet. But we don't go to the fleet. No we go to some nobleman's house. Only he isn't here. And I think you knew he wouldn't be here. And we plan to blow this place up – why, I haven't the dimmest of ideas – and plant a bunch of evidence that the Americans did it. Only it's lousy evidence, and the Spanish will know it wasn't them. And we leave evidence that it was us, which, well, since it is us, don't make no sense."

Smythe-Whiting turned to him."Right so far."

McKay continued."So, the Spanish, when they get here, will figure us for trying to get them to fight the United States, which, on account of that naval battle against the Russkies, ain't gonna happen no how." Smythe-Whiting nodded again.

"So the Spanish, well, they'll be pretty unhappy about that, won't they?" "And do you have a problem with making the Spanish unhappy, Master Sergeant?" asked Smythe-Whiting. "Oh no sir, not at all. But, and again, beggin' your pardon, this seems like a strange plan."

 _Oh, it is_ , thought Smythe-Whiting, _and just wait until you see the rest of it._


	14. Undone

LEGAL NOTICE: THE TWO GEORGES NOVEL BELONGS TO HARRY TURTLEDOVE AND RICHARD DREYFUSS. THE FOLLOWING STORY IS MIKE TURCOTTE'S. With that out of the way, enjoy!

February 17th, 1945

The North Sea

Commander John Wilson let out a mild oath as he lowered his binoculars. The bridge crew of the USS Nashville looked at each other in some surprise; their commander was a devout man who rarely swore; but they understood it. The Nashville had been part of the fleet of US ships designated to sweep Russian shipping from the Barents and North Seas after Congress declared war in January of 1945. The Nashville, along with several other CAs and CLs had surged forth and found …

Very little.

As on the Earth the United States had come from, there wasn't much of a Russian merchant marine to begin with. What little there had been was either cowering in neutral ports around the world, had been 'reflagged' to other nationalities, or sunk by the US Carriers now stationed off of Murmansk, in the Barents Sea and on the Atlantic side of Gibraltar. There had been precious little for the 'raiders' the US had sent out to do.

Rumor had it that US subs were operating in both the Baltic and Mediterranean Seas; Wilson wondered if they were having any more luck than he was. A few minutes ago, Radar and then lookouts had spied another ship; the surge of excitement had ended when Wilson had identified the French flag flying from the mainmast of the clipper-like sailing ship he seen.

Wilson stared at the bleak seascape around him. The North Sea in February on this Earth was no more pleasant than on the original Earth, and the Nashville, while still fully functional, was taking a pounding from rough seas. Wilson though about his orders again; they left him considerable latitude to rendezvous with the fleet train when he needed. Perhaps it was time to reconsider-

His thoughts were cut off by a messenger from the radio shack appearing. Wilson sketched a hasty salute and read the flimsy the ensign had handed him. He frowned at the orders. Join up with a US surface task force that would be entering the Baltic. He frowned again. Naval Intelligence had put large Russian surface forces at Riga and Krondstadt, and while Wilson was confident the US could deal with them (or, if all else failed, simply sail away from them), he wondered what was going on.

February 18th, 1945

Kingston, Jamaica

Considerably warmer than Commander Wilson was, Smythe-Whiting was enjoying some down time in Kingston, Jamaica. Or would have been, if his view wasn't ruined. He was sitting in a comfortable chair, outside the main British headquarters building, which controlled the vast military installation that served as the home port for Britain's massive New World fleet. The force – stronger than anything in the Empire aside from the Home Fleet – had been the stuff of nightmares for the Alliance in the New World. And, it still was, Smythe-Whiting, thought. All in all, a magnificent spectacle of ships, the bright white buildings of the town, and the sparkling azure waters of the bay.

Except for the ruined view.

It wasn't the weather – which was Caribbean-perfect. It wasn't the people – a combination of British naval personnel and the ships in the harbor. Nor was it any other kind of obstruction. No, the view was ruined by three ships. Two of them were what the Americans called 'Liberty ships' – a particularly nastily-named class in Smythe-Whiting's opinion – that were unloading supplies at the docks. Those ships – built in just a few weeks if the Americans were to be believed – were considered tubby merchantmen by the US Navy. And, in truth, they were. But they could outrun almost anything in the British Navy, and they plied the harbor with a speed and grace few British warships – to say nothing of British merchant ships – could have matched. They were squat, ugly, and their very presence – and the utter technological superiority that they represented - offended Smythe-Whiting.

However, truth be told, it wasn't the Liberty ships that truly ruined the view. No, that accomplishment had to be awarded to the presence of USS Tuscaloosa which lingered just outside of the harbor entrance, well within Smythe-Whiting's view. There ostensibly to protect US merchant shipping against the depredations of the Russian Navy (although if there was a Russian Navy surface ship within 4,000 miles of Jamaica, Smythe-Whiting would eat his proverbial hat), it loomed large over all it surveyed. It was more than capable of engaging – and defeating - multiple British capital ships in combat. Its guns outranged the British ships, and it was also much faster. In short, it would be a mighty effort for the British to sink.

And it wasn't even a battleship. It was just one of many heavy cruisers the US Navy had. And it wasn't even particularly new – and it didn't even approach the raw horror that an aircraft carrier could bring to any British naval man.

Smythe-Whiting's eyes narrowed at the sight of the US heavy cruiser. He was beginning to get a feel for American naval classes, and recognized the Tuscaloosa. The eight inch main guns, the many anti-aircraft guns (useless now), the mysterious 'radar' antennae that British intelligence was still trying to figure out. Smythe-Whiting's gaze turned back to the Liberty ships. He was resentful and thankful at the same time. The carrying capacity of the ships was not huge, but the efficiency with which they were handled – coupled with their great speed – meant that relatively few of them could handle the shipping needs of the huge British base. Already, the Americans had provided enough to keep Kingston running for months.

If Mortimer's plan worked out, the British would NEED Jamaica running at peak efficiency, and soon at that. Thoughts of the plan seemed to magically bring Master Sergeant McKay into view, walking in from HQ. Of course, there was nothing magical about it; this meeting had pre-arranged by Smythe-Whiting. The Master Sergeant walked up to Smythe-Whiting and sketched a salute. Smythe-Whiting grinned up at him, returned the salute, and indicated a chair next to him. While many might have looked askance at an officer sitting so informally with a NCO – or an aristocrat with a commoner – McKay had earned Smythe-Whiting's respect, and besides, they were hardly in the field.

McKay grinned back and sat down. He joined Smythe-Whiting in contemplating the vista before them. As with Smythe-Whiting, McKay's eyes lingered on the Tuscaloosa. Smythe-Whiting let the man relax for a moment, and then looked over at him.

"I've got new orders, Sergeant McKay. Please have the men assemble in their barracks by 0600 tomorrow morning."

McKay's eyes gleamed, and Smythe-Whiting grinned internally. McKay was a man of action, and was clearly enjoying his time with Smythe-Whiting and the missions they kept running. The last one in the Yucatan had been … exciting.

"Aye, sir," McKay said tranquilly.

"Should I expect any problems with the harbor police?" asked Smythe-Whiting.

McKay had the grace to look offended. "From my lads, sir? Perish the thought. They're all good lads, and I'm sure there's been no trouble."

Smythe-Whiting managed to contain his laugh. He'd be amazed if there'd been 'no trouble' – amazed, and a little disappointed. 'McKay's irregulars' as he'd taken to calling them – were all highly skilled sailors – vaguely akin to what he'd learned the Americans called 'Rangers' (or were they US Army?). The missions they were on could be long, grueling, stress-filled and uncomfortable, and during the infrequent liberties, the Irregulars tended to get a bit … rambunctious. Smythe-Whiting had heard of some of the … trouble … they'd gotten into in the bars and brothels around the harbor, and was only disappointed that position meant that he couldn't be there to participate in some of that trouble himself.

Smythe-Whiting nodded sagely. "Well, I'm sure you're right. However, on the off chance that there has been an issue, I'll be at the HQ this evening; feel free to wake me."

McKay looked aghast. "Sir! I'm sure there'll be no call for wakin' you! Any trouble, I'll deal with it."

"I'm sure you will, Mr. McKay." Smythe-Whiting grinned. He wondered what 'dealing with it' meant – probably the use of explosives against police holding facilities to free his men, if necessary.

Both men turned to contemplate the harbor again. They shared a companionable silence for a minute. McKay broke it.

"You know sir, and beggin' your pardon, I've been thinkin'."

Smythe-Whiting grinned at him. "Dangerous, Mr. McKay, thinking always leads to trouble."

McKay grinned back. "Aye, sir. However, in all the runnin' back and forth we're doin', I can't help but notice a pattern, whereas before I didn't."

Smythe-Whiting crooked an eyebrow. "Oh? Do go on, Master Sergeant."

"Yessir. All these things we've been doing. Blowin' Alliance stuff up, leaving lousy evidence it was the Americans and better evidence that it was us … well, that confused me, it did, sir."

Smythe-Whiting nodded.

McKay continued. "Then I noticed sir, that all of these supposed 'Alliance' places and such, well, really, they're just Spanish."

Smythe-Whiting nodded sagely. "We do tend to forget that the 'Alliance' is actually two countries, and not just the French."

McKay's eyes narrowed at Smythe-Whiting's bland – and rather profound – reply. "Yessir. So we've not been botherin' about the Alliance as it were. No, we've been after the Spanish, and only the Spanish."

Smythe-Whiting sat back in his chair. "That's an interesting observation, Mr. McKay."

McKay stared out at the Tuscaloosa. He allowed for another silence. "I hear the new Spanish Emperor is quite the hothead, sir."

"Indeed?"

McKay continued. "Yes sir. A young man he is. Quite young. And burning with that Catholic fervor too."

"Indeed?" Smythe-Whiting said again with another grin.

"He's likely to be quite upset about all these doin's. And the French, well, we haven't touched them, sir. They'll likely be … not as angry."

Smythe-Whiting only nodded, still grinning.

McKay sat for another minute, then stood. "Well, sir, I'd best be seein' about the lads. I'll bid good afternoon to you."

"Good afternoon, McKay."

McKay strode away, but then stopped. He turned back to Smythe-Whiting. "Sir, this … well, this thing we're doin'. It doesn't involve fighting them yet now does it sir?" McKay nodded at the Tuscaloosa.

Smythe-Whiting crooked an eyebrow in mild surprise. "Why do you ask?"

McKay looked somewhat apprehensive. "Well, sir, it's just that –" the Master Sergeant paused, clearly uncomfortable. "You know me and the lads, we'll follow you anywhere sir, yes anywhere at all. But I hear things sir, not from our lads, but from the regular blokes on the ships." McKay nodded at the British fleet anchorage in Kingston.

Smythe-Whiting narrowed his eyes. "What kinds of things?" He wasn't sure what was happening here, but a wise man once told his that he ignored NCOs at his peril.

McKay looked grim. "Them – the regular blokes that is – well, they're none-to-eager to fight the Americans, sir. Oh, they'll go after the Froggies or Dagos with no problem at all, but even the dullest of 'em can see that" McKay nodded at the Tuscaloosa "or that" he looked skyward – there were no US planes up at the moment, but his meaning was obvious "and know that it ain't gonna end well in a fight. They're brave sir, and loyal to the King-Emperor and all, but there fightin', and there's certain death sir, and well …"

Smythe-Whiting gave a chuckle he didn't feel. "Oh don't worry yourself on that front, McKay. We have no intention of fighting the United States."

Not yet, anyhow, he thought, and carefully did not say. He sighed and sat back. So far, so good on his part of the plan. He wondered how Duke Mortimer was getting along on his part.

February 20th, 1945

Washington, DC, United States of America

It had been said – by people on both sides of the English Channel – that divine providence had smiled upon Britain long ago – and kept smiling. It was a folk tale told by many to explain the seemingly uncanny fortune that seemed to affect the British and all their works. From the talented individuals that helped to create the Empire to the lack of cohesion by others in resisting, it seemed that indeed the almighty had taken Britain as His chosen.

That belief had taken a hit with the Event. That such a large, fertile part of the Empire would be rent asunder, and replaced by a Republic – a Republic whose arts and power far exceeded those of Albion - seemed to indicate to some that the British were being punished, perhaps for the sin of hubris or even simple pride. That the Republic was composed of former Britons whose forebears had rebelled against their lawful king seemed to reinforce that view. Even Duke Mortimer, not a religious man at all, had thought that.

If that was the case, and it was a big 'if' in Duke Mortimer's mind, then somehow Britain had regained the favor of the Almighty, if indeed such an entity existed. It was not that some tragedy had befallen the United States, nor had magical British warships from the future mysteriously appeared in Scapa Flow. No great inspiration had come to a British inventor to counter the seemingly impossible lead the United States possessed. No, it was far subtler than all that. It was far neater. And it was all Duke Mortimer could reasonably have wished for.

'It' in this case was the person of Juan Carlos de Garza, Duke of Medinaceli, cousin to the Spanish Emperor, Ambassador from the Empire of Spain to the United States of America, and a blessing from God as far as Duke Mortimer was concerned.

That the Spanish – like all major powers – would appoint a high-ranking noble for the post of mere ambassador would have been unthinkable before the Event, unless that ambassadorship was to the British Empire. However, the battle in the Aleutians had tough the powers of the world that the United States was a force like no other, and that managing the relationship with the United States was THE most critical aspect of their foreign policies. Thus Duke Mortimer's own appointment, the French had sent their own Duke of Algiers, and the Spanish the Emperor's own cousin.

Medinaceli was an interesting character. A boyhood friend to the Spanish Emperor, he shared many of the Emperor's beliefs about Spain, Faith, and politics. For that reason – friendship and trust, he had been appointed to the US. Medinaceli had risen to his title after the untimely death of his father two years previously. He blamed his father's death – publically and often - on certain unspoken "British Conspiracies"; he was certain that Britain had somehow conjured up the heart attack – perhaps through a poison. While Britain was not above assassination in extreme cases, it was a distinctly un-gentlemenly thing to do, and was avoided in most cases, especially in the case of high nobles. As far as Mortimer knew, Britain had done nothing to cause the older Medinaceli's death.

Not that he wouldn't use that to his advantage in certain situations.

Like this one, for example. In Dean Acheson's office were the US Secretary of State, Mortimer, Medinaceli and the French Duke of Algiers, Charles Foulange. On a large table were spread some of the detritus that Smythe-Whiting had left.

"Mr. Secretary, please, surely you can see what is happening here. The British" – Medinaceli practically spat the word – "are attempting to implicate you in an act of war against the Alliance. They seek to embroil us in a conflict that would weaken both of us, allowing them the advantage."

Mortimer internally snorted. While he had no doubt that the Alliance would be weakened – if not simply destroyed – the United States would not be. Not even a little bit. If he'd though the Alliance could weaken them, he wouldn't be utilizing this alternative plan.

Dean Acheson looked very concerned. In either hand he held some examples of the debris, one piece with poor American markings, the other with British markings. "Duke Mortimer?" he asked.

Mortimer made a show of sighing. "The British Empire formally denies having anything – anything at all – to do with the incidents in Cartagena, Cuba, Darien and the Yucatan that His Grace has mentioned." He indicated the piece of 'American' metal that Acheson was holding, and continued. "While I do not have an explanation for the incidents, and I am personally unfamiliar with the evidence presented here, I would ask that we calmly consider them. Mr. Secretary, if I may?"

Acheson handed the 'American' piece over. Mortimer pretended to study it for a moment, and then faced the others. "While I am hardly in expert in the cloak-and-dagger kinds of stories His Grace is discussing, I would think that any competent spy – and I will confess we have them as do all powers – would at least get the flag correct if they wanted to implicate the United States." Mortimer pointed to the 'US' flag etched into the metal.

Both Acheson and Foulange were nodding. Perfect, thought Mortimer. Time to turn it up a bit.

Mortimer looked thoughtful, and turned to Medinaceli. "Your Grace, you mentioned that the first of these incidents-"

"Attacks!" growled Medinaceli.

Mortimer stared. "Attacks, then. If I may continue, your Grace?"

Medinaceli gave a short, sharp, angry nod.

"As I was saying," continued Mortimer, "the first of these … occurrences … happened on one of the Duke of Darien's estates – this one near Cartagena."

Medinaceli simply stared, but Foulange nodded.

"And neither the Duke nor any of his household were in residence at the time?" Mortimer continued.

Foulange nodded again.

Mortimer nodded, as if he'd come to a realization. "Then I would ask what the utility of destroying the house was. Any competent assassin would surely ascertain that his target was present before blowing up the house, so I would think that we could rule that out. Any competent spy would make sure to leave better evidence that an incorrect flag." Mortimer held up the metal scrap. He noted that both Acheson and Foulange were both nodding. Perfect. "I would think that a more likely explanation would be simple crime. Someone – or perhaps a group of individuals – ascertained that the house was empty, pilfered it of valuables, and then destroyed it to cover their tracks, as it were. This evidence was left to confuse investigators – though how it would fool anyone with a functional brain is beyond me."

Medinaceli was turning purple at the implied insult as Mortimer turned back to Acheson. "Mr. Secretary, prior to the arrival of the United States, the Caribbean was always a somewhat chaotic place, with many competing powers and less than perfect policing. There have been criminals, akin to what your Mr. Hoover has called 'organized crime', adventurers, brigands and pirates. Your arrival has potentially exasperated the situation; frankly until today I hadn't given the matter much thought. I would theorize that the issue here is, as I said, one of crime and pilferage as opposed to any kind of political machination." The lies flowed so smoothly that Mortimer barely noticed them any more.

Foulange was nodding. "Mr. Secretary, my esteemed colleague from the British Empire is correct in his assessment of the Caribbean. I would beg leave to allow our intelligence and police services to continue their invest-"

"And what of the other evidence? The British evidence!" Medinaceli interrupted, an almost unheard breech of etiquette. Foulange looked moderately outraged but held his tongue.

Mortimer sighed somewhat dramatically. "Your Grace, surely you can see it is the same thing." He gave Medinaceli a pitying look. The Duke got even angrier if that was possible. "HMS Swiftsure is in port in Jamaica. I assure you that she is fully intact." This was actually truth, and tasted odd in Mortimer's mouth. "I know that relations between the British Empire and the Alliance have not always been ideal, and it must seem like the natural thing to do is blame us. But I beg you to examine the evidence with clear eyes as ask yourselves if any of it makes sense. Only a fool would think that would even possible to ensnare you in a war against the United States given their clear technical superiority."

Foulange was nodding, which was good. However, some of the fire had gone out of Medinaceli, which was bad. Time to take steps to correct that.

Mortimer cleared his throat. "Thank you, and please realize that sometimes when unfortunate occurrences happen, it is the will of God as opposed to any ill intent-"

Medinaceli exploded out of his chair. "You dare!" The Spanish Duke was practically screaming. "You dare to speak of the Lord our God you HERETIC!"

Mortimer raised a placating hand. "I meant no disrespect to your faith, your Grace. I merely-"

"YOU DO NOT SPEAK TO ME OF FAITH! YOU WHO HAVE REJECTED THE AUTHORITY OF THE HOLY FATHER! YOU KNOW NOTHING OF FAITH!" Medinaceli roared. Both Acheson and Foulange were staring at the young Duke. With a visible effort, Medinaceli composed himself – somewhat. "Mr. Secretary I apologize for my outburst. But you have not dealt with the British – or at least these British - here before. My country and even my own family have bitter history with them. I assure you, they are nothing like Mr. Churchill from your world."

Acheson nodded as Foulange hustled to get the young Duke out of the room. "One thing you should know, Duke Medinaceli." Dean Acheson eyed the young man warily. "Many of us here in the United States are not Catholic. Even those who happen to be Catholic are still … I guess the best term is 'reconciling' with the Pope in Rome. While you are free to espouse any religious view you like, please be aware that freedom of religion is cherished here."

Medinaceli turned a look on Acheson that was almost dripping in contempt. "That is merely one of many things you do wrong here in this republic." The last word was almost spat. Foulange's eyes went wide, and he physically hustled the Spanish Duke out of the room, making apologies to the US Secretary of State. Acheson looked shocked.

Mortimer could almost not contain his glee.

Mortimer turned to Acheson. "Mr. Secretary, I apologize. I had no idea that this meeting would take this particular course. I would like to assure you that the British Empire had nothing to do with these incidents."

Acheson nodded, and watched as the British Ambassador get up. "May I ask what the British Empire intends to do about this?"

Mortimer shrugged. "There's not much we can do." He gave a conspiratorial grin. "Our own investigators are hardly welcome in the Alliance which is where these incidents have occurred. So far, at least." He shrugged again. "I would imagine that our intelligence services are aware of most of the bigger and more organized criminal elements down there. I will be asking the Colonial Office to look into them." That wasn't a lie either; the British needed someone disposable to pin this on if the plan blew up after all.

Mortimer nodded and took his leave. As the door shut behind the British Ambassador Dean Acheson again contemplated the 'evidence' left behind. Idly he examined the burned metal with the remains of 'HMS Swiftsure' on the side.

Roosevelt had stopped Donovan's boys from directly spying on anyone but the Russians and Japanese abroad, and prevented Hoover from placing any agents domestically with anyone but the Dutch (and then only to keep an eye on the Russian there). Well, nothing to do for it now-

Acheson froze in the act of tossing the metal away. He looked again at the ship's name. He wondered how many ships the British had at Kingston. If he remembered the briefing, it was dozens, maybe over a hundred. It was … odd … that Duke Mortimer happened be aware that a particular naval vessel that was in evidence he'd claimed to never have seen before was in a particular place. Out of all of the 100 ships there, Mortimer just happened to know of HMS Swiftsure, which just happened to be on all this evidence?

Acheson checked himself before his thoughts ran too far ahead. There were plenty of plausible reasons for Mortimer to know that ship. Maybe it was a famous ship here on this Earth. Maybe he had a relative serving on it. Maybe he just liked to know the disposition of British naval strength.

But as Acheson examined the piece in the afternoon light, he had to admit, it was odd.

February 21st, 1945

Moscow, Russian Empire

Mikhail Gusarov looked over his bar in satisfaction. The evening crowd was large, and typically Russian. 'Russian' in this case meant loud and messy, though Gusarov preferred 'boisterous' as an adjective.

After arriving in Moscow, he'd quickly converted a small quantity of his wealth to cash. Then he'd found a bar that was failing. The bar was only a few blocks from the Kremlin, which provided for some government workers as regular customers. The previous owner had neglected the place, and been all too happy to sell to a wealthy Siberian from Omsk, as Gusarov portrayed himself. A little more of that wealth – and not nearly as much as Gusarov would have thought - had sufficed to clean it up and remodel it. He'd retained the staff to help run the place, and after two weeks of cleanup and renovation, the Red October had opened for business.

Gusarov had allowed a small conceit about the name. As far as tradecraft went, it wasn't terribly brilliant; anyone from the United States who visited Moscow would have recognized the reference, after all, but Gusarov wasn't planning on being here long. Besides, it made this other Moscow feel a little more like home.

A good communist, Gusarov had been aghast when he found out how much profit the Red October generated. He'd been in plenty of bars in New York City, and modeling the Red October after them. He'd had the money, after all, and within a few weeks was turning a profit. He'd retained the rooms above the bar for his personal residence, and quickly fell in love with the place.

Now, if only he could figure out how to keep the American B-29s from turning the Red October – and the rest of Moscow for that matter – into rubble, he'd be all set.

Moscow – and the Russia it represented both delighted and chilled Gusarov. It delighted him in that it reminded him of the Moscow of his youth – before Stalin. While not optimistic or forward-looking like New York or Los Angeles, there was a certain pride here, and a certain live-for-the-moment levity that Stalin's Russia had lacked. The Okhrana – the secret police of the Tsar – were in Moscow yes, and maybe even here in the bar. But were nothing – less that nothing actually – when compared to Beria's NKVD. Much as it pained him to admit, this Moscow was happier under the Tsar than the other had been under Stalin.

What depressed him was the lack of revolutionary spirit in the people. They seemed content with their lot. The Tsar's government was as corrupt as Nicholas II's had been before 1918 on the old Earth – the amount the bribes Gusarov had paid to get the Red October ready attested to that – but there was little resistance from the populace. While he hadn't deluded himself into thinking he could re-start the revolution here – after all no one had ever heard of Marx or Lenin here – had hoped to find more active resentment than he had. The people here simply accepted the repression as the price of being commoners in a world dominated by aristocrats.

The news of the defeat in the Aleutians had reached Moscow, and Gusarov had noted that censorship was as well-known here as in the Soviet Union. The fleet had not been destroyed, rather the offensive to liberate 'Holy Alaska' had been put on hold until better weather in the spring. Gusarov had little faith in that; he seen some Russian troops parading in what he called Red Square; the Americans would defeat them easily.

Gusarov sighed and turned away from his dark thoughts and back to the crowd. It had surprised his staff when Gusarov had elected to work the bar himself, at least a little bit. He liked to talk to people, and it was why he was here in Moscow, after all. To talk, to try and gain some intelligence so that the US didn't totally wreck Russia. He noted one crowd in the back. Better-dressed than most, they had the look of government bureaucrats out for a few drinks after work. Gusarov's types, then.

He grabbed a tray of drinks from one of the waitresses – Tasha was her name – pretty girl from Tula come to the big city to make her fortune – and headed over for the table. Time to make some new friends.

February 22nd, 1945

Stralsund, Grand Duchy of Pomerania

Karl Gustav Stuwe (he was no longer an Oberstleutnant) stared at the two Liberty ships in Stralsund's harbor. They were impressive enough on their own to the Germans – Pomeranians, von Stuwe corrected himself. They were dwarfed by the bulk of the USS Indiana and several accompanying escorts, however. Many on the dockside were simply staring at it.

He had to admit it was impressive. It was also the only battleship the US had in the Baltic, and it couldn't stay for long. No port in the Baltic – save perhaps St. Petersburg or Stockholm – could berth the Indiana, and no one had fuel or ammunition for it either. Still it was impressive for however long it was here.

Ever since arriving in Stralsund on a flying boat, Stuwe had been in a seemingly endless series of meeting with Pomeranian business and government leaders. It was distinctly odd to have so many people – and obviously senior people at that – hanging on his every word. They were interested in his military experience – and found the idea of a united Germany fascinating as well, but clearly didn't trust their neighbors, be it the Prussians in the East of the Hanoverians in the west. Mostly they wanted to talk about making money with the Americans.

There were Jews in Stralsund, in positions in both the government and business. While this surprised Stuwe, he wasn't really shocked; there'd been plenty of Jews in Germany before Hitler after all. Stuwe found talking to them both fascinating and oddly frightening at the same time. He'd never really done so before and found them much like anyone else. He wondered if they been 'much like anyone else' in Hitler's Germany as well. Perhaps one more indication that the Nazis had been … wrong.

"Nice, isn't it," said a voice next to Stuwe.

Stuwe turned to see Kohn, the State Department man turned ambassador.

Stuwe still didn't like the man much – something about him was just off – but they'd spent much time together recently, and Stuwe could more than tolerate him.

"Aren't you worried about the Russians? I know that they are primitive, but there are a lot of them, I hear. And you have only the one battleship." asked Stuwe.

Kohn snorted. "We're not that lucky. We got all the Russian naval bases covered by air. They can't twitch without us knowing. Besides, the captain of the Indiana thinks he can take the whole Russian Baltic Fleet all by himself. He's probably right too." Another snort. "That won't be allowed, of course. We're not taking risks like that just yet."

Stuwe was about to comment when he noted something that had been unloaded on the docks. There was a crowd of gorgeously dressed military officers excitedly clustered around a …

Panzer.

The Americans were unloading panzers onto the dock. "What is that?" asked Stuwe.

Kohn grinned. "Noticed that, did you?" He straightened. "That, former Oberstleutnant, is a part of our deal with the locals."

"You're giving them Panzers?!" Stuwe was incredulous.

Kohn shrugged. "Not really. Do you recognize them?"

Stuwe squinted through the crowds. He was more familiar with Soviet and British armor than US tanks, but these panzers were tiny things, comparatively. He finally shook his head no.

Kohn grinned. "I would have been surprised if you did. Those are M2A1s. They're precursors to the M3 Lee you might be familiar with." He shook his head. "They were considered obsolete years ago, and never saw combat in Europe – or even in the Pacific."

Stuwe grunted as he studied the panzers. They reminded him of Panzer IIs. But smaller. He turned to Kohn. "Toys then."

Kohn shrugged. "Mostly, yeah. We'll keep them in enough gas to keep running for parades or whatever when the local grandees want to show off."

Stuwe nodded. He had to agree with Kohn. The local nobles who ran Pomerania were … not impressive. Panzers - even small one like these might boost some fragile egos.

"Anything else to go with them in the parades?" asked Stuwe.

Kohn shrugged again. "Couple of old half tracks and some trucks. They got enough for what we would call an armored company minus the self-propelled artillery, logistics units and air support."

Stuwe nodded. The Americans had unloaded the panzers – which Stuwe noted were emblazoned with the Pomeranian flag – and now men in Pomeranian uniforms were scrambling over them. Even as Stuwe watched, one of the Panzers belched a great gout of smoke and started forward, only to almost crush the watching – and frantically shouting - officers before it lurched to a stop. Much shouting ensued as it was clear that no one in a Pomeranian uniform had a clue as to what to do with the panzers.

Kohn laughed, annoying Stuwe. It wasn't anyone in Pomerania's fault that they'd never seen a panzer before.

Kohn spoke, "Why don't you go over there and lend a hand, Oberstleutnant? Perhaps before they drive one of their new tanks into the harbor?" He laughed again.

Stuwe glowered for a moment, and then headed over that way at a walk. As he saw how poorly the panzers were being handled, he broke into a trot.

February 25th, 1945

Washington, DC, United States of America

It was just the two of them, Dean Acheson and Danish ambassador Count Olaf Holm. They were sitting at a table covered by papers and maps, but it was just the two of them, and Dean Acheson was not happy.

"I thought we had a deal, Count."

Holm nodded. "We still can, Mr. Secretary. My government is only requesting one minor revision to the agreement."

Acheson sat back, and wondered what 'minor' meant. This deal had taken weeks to hammer out, and Acheson was leery of any revisions – 'minor' or not.

"Let's go over it then. Is it about Sandur?"

"No," Holm responded. The United States would be purchasing a 99-year lease on the island of Sandur in the Faeroe Islands, and proving ample monetary compensation for the 317 current residents who would have to move. In return, the Danish Empire was receiving a large financial settlement, airports in Copenhagen, Oslo, Reykjavik, and Narvik. They would also get MFN trade status with the United States.

That alone would have been enough, as far as Acheson was concerned, but the Danes wanted more. And the United States wanted a base, and so shortly the USS Texas would be transferring ownership to Denmark, along with a training regime for the Danish crew, two light cruisers and some old destroyers. The force was a joke to the United States – the Texas was laid down in 1911 – but would give Denmark one of the strongest navies in the world. Those ships, plus the trade deal (frankly worth a lot more than some rusty old ships as far as Acheson was concerned – especially since Denmark couldn't even keep them running or supplied without US help) were more than enough for a windswept island in the North Atlantic.

However, as in real estate, for military bases, location was everything, and the Danes, technically unsophisticated as they might be, knew it.

So Acheson was wary as he asked "Then what is it about?"

"Schedule C of the agreement, Mr. Secretary."

Acheson frowned in concentration as he turned to the relevant section. His brow furrowed in confusion. "Schedule C provides for the defense of Denmark against Russian attacks for the duration of the war."

Holm nodded. He was now sweating, Acheson noted.

"What is the modification the Danish government requires? Please note that while the United States is willing – more than willing actually – to guarantee the Danish Empire against the Russians, we are not willing to enter into a formal alliance. Not yet, anyway." Acheson was firm. While others might not see much difference between a 'guarantee' and an alliance, diplomats surely did.

Holm licked his lips nervously. "Yes, I understand. It that part – about guaranteeing us against the Russians – that we wish to change."

Dean Acheson was still confused. "Change how?"

"We wish to remove the specificity."

Acheson stared. "Specificity?"

Holm swallowed. "Yes. Rather than specifying the Russian Empire as the threat we wish to be … open … about who might threaten us."

Acheson cocked his head. "You want a blanket guarantee against all aggression directed at Denmark." It was a statement, not a question.

Holm nodded.

Acheson thought hard about that. From what the State Department had learned, Denmark had good relations with all of its neighbors, apart from the occasional flare-up with the Swedish Empire and Mecklenburg in the south. Acheson couldn't believe that Sweden or a minor German duchy were what really worried Denmark. No, someone else did. And given that Denmark was a fairly strong country, there were really only two candidates for who that might be.

"Could you be more … particular about what concerns you have."

"No." Holm's immediate – and terse answer told Acheson all he needed to know. Denmark wanted the money, wanted the ships, wanted the trade deal, and someone else did not want them to have it.

Acheson had broad leeway from Roosevelt here – he could make what deal he needed to. The military and the Administration wanted this.

He thought a minute longer. This committed the United States to the defense of a foreign empire in Europe, against all comers. Then Acheson thought of the Aleutians. Let them come then.

"Deal," said the American Secretary of State.


	15. Plots in motion

LEGAL NOTICE: THE TWO GEORGES NOVEL BELONGS TO HARRY TURTLEDOVE AND RICHARD DREYFUSS. THE FOLLOWING STORY IS MIKE TURCOTTE'S. With that out of the way, enjoy!

March 2nd, 1945

Washington DC, United States of America

White-hot, the rage burned behind his eyes. He had been careful not to show it to others, but here in the privacy of his office, and with only the one guest, he gave leave to himself to express that rage – some of it, at any rate. But even now he didn't lash out as his heart and soul begged him to. Instead, he regarded his guest through half-lidded eyes that should have had flames coming out of them.

For whatever limited value his gaze had, Duke Mortimer's stare clearly discomforted Count Olaf Holm of the Danish Empire. The Count was almost squirming in his plush seat in Duke Mortimer's study, and a line of sweat glistened on the Count's forehead below his thinning blond hair.

Mortimer took some comfort that Count had the decency to look abashed under all the defiance.

On the other side of a huge desk from Holm, Mortimer stood and leaned over his blotter, making no attempt to hide the menace in his eyes.

"Could it be, my dear Count, that you … misunderstood … our conversation of the other day? The one where we all agreed to keep the Americans out of Europe?"

Holm licked his lips again, and then looked Mortimer in the eye. "No. But I remember the one where you TOLD us that."

Mortimer froze. The fire grew even hotter. "I'm sorry, I think I misunderstood you. Could you say that again?"

Something seemed to stiffen in Holm's attitude. He stared at Mortimer. "I said I remembered the conversation. Obviously, Copenhagen did not agree to Britain's – or perhaps it was more from you – demands."

"Count Olaf, you need to communicate to Copenhagen at once. Inform them that this deal with the Americans is a non-starter. I want you to-"

"I don't care what you want." Holm interrupted. "Neither does Copenhagen. Not anymore."

Mortimer sputtered, but Holm pressed on. "I think you will find, Charles, that others will start to feel the same way. If you doubt me, I would refer you to Schedule C of the agreement we just signed with Mr. Acheson." He leaned over Mortimer's desk and spoke quietly. "We have the Americans on our side now. And all of the King-Emperor's horses and all of the King-Emperor's men – and perhaps most importantly all the King-Emperor's ships, well, you know the rest. They would sweep you from the seas, and you, and everyone else knows it."

Holm sighed. "I don't like them Charles, not yet anyway. I find their Republic annoying and their attitudes about skin color repugnant. But I think I could, if they change, and I think they will." He leaned close. "For too long Britannia has had its way Charles. To the point where men like you don't even pretend to deal with others as equals. Now, well, there's even less equality now, given the Americans' power. And I think you find that others in this tidy little world you had are also tired of you." He snorted. "You can't even keep tiny Pomerania in line. How do you expect to keep a great power like Denmark dancing to a new tune, now that the conductor has changed." Holm stood. "Good Day, Your Grace."

Mortimer stared after him in impotent rage. He would get his – but for now, he was right. With the Americans protecting Denmark, they were untouchable – for now. Mortimer calmed himself. This whole unpleasant episode merely highlighted the need to make sure the plan worked, that was all. After that, well, after that, Denmark would made to see reason again.

And Pomerania? The Americans had no treaty with Pomerania, and well, that was a problem Mortimer could solve.

March 3rd, 1945

Santiago de Cuba, Cuba, Spanish Empire

Master Sergeant McKay carefully adjusted his aim, and then pressed the trigger. The 12-pounder on the deck belched smoke, and one of the warehouses near the docks of Santiago de Cuba exploded into a shower of wood splinters and glass fragments. He fired again a moment later, striking another warehouse. There was a magnificent secondary explosion from that one that blew the roof sky high, and ignited fires along the waterfront.

McKay grinned. He hadn't known – or really cared – what was in the warehouses he was shooting at, but it was always nice to get unanticipated help.

Torpedo Boat 51 – carefully repainted to look identical to Torpedo boat 62 – was cruising slowly up and down the Bahia de Santiago de Cuba. It had snuck in under the cover of darkness in the pre-dawn hours, and hid in a small cove in the Bahia Cajuma until the morning sun was fully up. An oversized Union Jack flew from the mast head, and the small boat was clearly visible to all in the area.

And of course, being fully visible to all was critical to success of the mission.

The Spanish never maintained that many ships at Santiago de Cuba; the primary naval base was Havana, and Guantanamo Bay had been far more important here in the south. But the Event had changed that, and two battleships were moored in the harbor, with several smaller vessels. There was activity on those too, but McKay wasn't concerned with those.

"Mr. Wilson?" McKay asked the Royal Navy Midshipman nominally in command of the small torpedo boat. The young man looked back. "She's not yet making steam, sir."

The 'she' in this case was the Spanish armored cruiser Alvarez, which was on alert in the harbor. McKay glanced at the ship. Crewmen were scrambling over the ship, hopefully getting it ready to respond to the attack.

McKay nodded and then turned back the gun. The two-man gun crew had finished loading it, and McKay looked away from the burning waterfront to the city itself. The pre-mission briefing had included a layout of the city, and the Spanish loved their old forts. One of them – gleaming in morning sun – rose above the city. It looked to McKay like it been built within a few years of Columbus discovering the New World, and it made a perfect target. He lobbed a couple of shells at the fort, and had the satisfaction of seeing one part of the wall collapse under his fire.

"Sergeant!" Wilson shouted, pointing at the Alvarez. McKay looked up, to see steam pouring from the stacks and the crew casting off the lines that held the ship at the dock.

"Right!" said McKay. He nodded at the torpedo man. With a whoosh and a splash, the torpedo raced off. McKay held his breath – if the Alvarez was damaged, the mission would fail. However, if Torpedo boat 51 – or was it 62 - didn't at least fire at the Alvarez, the Spanish might get suspicious.

The British luck held as the torpedo missed the Alvarez and the torpedo slammed into a merchant ship moored into the harbor. There was a tremendous gout of water and debris, and the ship started listing. McKay grinned. He fired a shot from the gun, carefully missing the Alvarez, and then made a swirling motion with one hand. Wilson punched the throttles, and 51 banked hard to starboard and started racing out of the harbor.

McKay kept a careful watch on the Alvarez. The armored cruiser was a few knots slower than the torpedo boat, and it was critical the British not outrun their pursuer – yet. McKay shook his head at it all. The Spanish Captain – whoever he was – had to know the British were faster, but the Alvarez tore out of its berth after the Torpedo boat. McKay could almost feel the rage of the Spanish as they came after the British.

There was a puff of smoke from the bow of the Alvarez, and a huge splash erupted a hundred yards from 51s bow. McKay grimaced. This mission was by far the most dangerous he'd done for Smythe-Whiting; and the Alvarez's forward 11-incher was just one part of it. They were within range of the gun, but it was unlikely – in the extreme – that the hastily-firing Spanish could hit 51. Unlikely was of course, not the same as impossible – and McKay was under no illusions of what would happen to 51 if a shell did hit – or even near-missed – the British torpedo boat.

51 rounded Punta Gorda, and raced for the harbor mouth. The Spanish Castillo del Morro guarded the harbor entrance, and McKay was counting on them not getting the alert about the British 'attack'. Besides, their guns were mostly pointing out, against external threats, not in at the harbor entrance. And, of course, it was critical that the Spanish garrison reported 51's course out to sea.

The Alvarez managed another shot, which also missed, and McKay fired a shell into the Castillo del Morro as they passed it. There was little – almost no – chance of doing any real physical damage to the massive fort, but that wasn't McKay's intent.

His intent was to get them mad.

51 exited the harbor, and raced west. The next part was the most dangerous. McKay raced below, past the frantically working engines, and jerked his head at the two men working there. They scrambled up the ladder to the deck, and McKay followed them, after setting the charges. Once on deck, McKay made a quick head count. Satisfied, he nodded at Wilson. Wilson nodded back, and tied a rope to the helm, locking the wheel in position. 51 started heading south west, away from the coast, and out to sea.

McKay – and the rest of the crew – leapt from 51 into the warm Caribbean waters. Hitting the water from fast-moving torpedo boat wasn't fun, but again, McKay discovered that all his men made it. Treading water, he watched 51. It sailed on for a moment, and then seemed the shudder in the water. It stopped, and almost immediately sank as the charges McKay set blew out the keel and bottom of the hull. McKay grinned; there was no smoke, and no evidence the ship had ever existed.

McKay and the former crew of the 51 swam to the Cuban shore. They had some civilian clothes with them; the plan was to hide out for the rest of the day, then make their way overland to the small village of Bueycabon, where they could steal a boat at night, and then make their way back to Jamaica. His part was over – and now came Smythe-Whiting's.

"A small problem, Commander?" The tone and voice almost dripped condescension along with the French accent, and Smythe-Whiting grinned to himself. Carefully hiding the grin, he turned to the speaker with what he hoped was a combination of embarrassment and outrage on his face.

Smythe-Whiting made sure that Captain-Lieutenant de Grasse of the French Royal Navy saw him mask the outrage with a small smile. "Not at all, my Lord. I'm sure my chaps will have it sorted out in no time at all."

The Frenchman grinned broadly. "I'm sure. If not, perhaps the Royal Navy's Torpedo Boats come equipped with paddles?"

The sun was hot on the becalmed British Torpedo Boat 62. The British crew – and their two guests – rode on gentle swells in the Caribbean not too far from Spanish Cuba.

The seemingly random attacks in the Caribbean had caused considerable consternation in Havana. British – and now French – attempts to calm the situation had failed, and the tensions in the area were high. Duke Mortimer had the idea of joint small-boat naval patrols to perhaps assuage Spanish concerns about the situation – proving that the British wanted the attacks ended as much as anyone. Mortimer also had the idea of including an American naval officer to help 'increase international trust'. Today's trip on Torpedo Boat 62 was meant to be a first try at the program, and so far it seemed to be going poorly.

Smythe-Whiting gave a forced laugh, and turned to open hatch to the below-decks engine. "Mr. Olson, your status, please?" Smythe-Whiting tried to insert the right amount of desperation into his tone.

"I'm looking sir," came the frantic reply. The aforementioned Olson's appearance did match his tone; the man was casually leaning against a bulkhead next to the engine. Smythe-Whiting shot him a quick grin. Since Olson had disabled the engines in the first place – and on Smythe-Whiting's orders at that - it seemed unfair to yell at him now. All in keeping with the show, however.

"Well, keep at it then." Smythe-Whiting straightened and turned back to his guests. "My pardon, sirs, it seems that we have a slight issue with the engine. I'm afraid we will be somewhat delayed. In the meantime, might I offer some iced tea?"

De Grasse was grinning openly. "Ah, even the mighty Royal Navy must suffer the occasional indignity. I'm only sorry that Captain Martinez was indisposed this morning and couldn't join us as he was supposed to."

Smythe-Whiting gave a forced grin. "Quite". The Spanish representative to the program had been drinking the night before, and was now recovering back in Jamaica. Since Smythe-Whiting had drugged the man's drinks, that wasn't surprising.

The American Lieutenant was about speak when a cry from the mast came. "Commander, ship to the north, bearing down on us."

Smythe-Whiting looked north, and saw the smudge of coal smoke on the horizon. "Can you make out the flag?" he called to the lookout.

The man stared hard for several moments and then called down. "Spanish, sir".

"What is it?" asked Smythe-Whiting.

Another pause. "Warship, sir. I think it is one of their armored cruisers."

De Grasse grinned. "Well, it appears we will have Spanish representation after all. I'm sure they can offer assistance with your engine-"

The French officer was cut off by a huge splash of water to the starboard of 62 followed by a dull boom from the approaching Spanish ship. The French and American representatives gaped at the roiling water near the splash. Smythe-Whiting grinned to himself; McKay had pulled it off. Now, just to keep all of them – especially the Frenchman – alive for the next few minutes, and the mission – no, the entire first stage of Mortimer's plan – would be a success.

"He fired at us sir," screamed the lookout, and Smythe-Whiting grinned to himself again. The man had injected the right amount of terror into his voice. The lookout was in on the plan of course – all the carefully selected British crew of the 62 were – but Smythe-Whiting guessed the terror in the voice was not entirely acting, but genuine.

"Thank you, I DID notice that, Mr. Jones." Smythe-Whiting spun back to the engine room hatch. "Mr. Olson?"

"Sorry sir, we aren't moving anytime soon."

"What are they DOING?" cried de Grasse. "They are firing on us for no reason!"

Another huge splash, closer to the 62 this time. The Spanish ship was now clearly visible. Smythe-Whiting frowned, and then nodded to himself. Time to end this. He turned to Jones in the mast. "Strike!"

Jones looked down. "Sir?"

Smythe-Whiting whirled on the mast, with what he hoped was a fair degree of visible rage. "Strike our colours, damn your eyes! Strike now!" With an apparent effort, he calmed himself. "We can't run, and we can't fight. And we have more to think about then merely ourselves now." Smythe-Whiting waved a hand at the representatives.

Jones looked abashed, and then the Union Jack came fluttering down. The sight of that bothered Smythe-Whiting more than he had thought it would, even though it was all part of the plan.

The Spanish ship fired once more – thankfully missing again – and then continued boring down on the British boat. Watching it come, Smythe-Whiting could not help but compare it to the Tuscaloosa. He shook his head. The Spanish ship – impressive as it was – was a death-trap to a ship like the Tuscaloosa, and Smythe-Whiting could only hope that Duke Mortimer knew what he was doing.

The Spanish ship – Smythe-Whiting could see that it was called the Alvarez – drew up alongside the 62. Several of the Alvarez's smaller guns were pointed at the 62, and several of the crew had rifles pointed at the British as well.

A man in an overly-elaborate uniform and about a dozen Spanish marines were lowered in a small boat to the sea. The boat made it over to the 62, and Smythe-Whiting watched as the man – a Spanish Captain – clambered up to the 62's main deck. Smythe-Whiting strode forward arrogantly, but made careful note of the Captain's uniform. That the Captain of the Alvarez – and not a lesser officer – would come over was surprising, but Smythe-Whiting could work with that. There hadn't been much intelligence on which ship or which officer would sally forth from Santiago de Cuba, so Smythe-Whiting had to make a quick appraisal. The Spanish Captain was a fit-looking man of about 40 with an enraged look on his face. His uniform was spotless, and included several medals. They didn't concern Smythe-Whiting – the Spanish Navy awarded medals like a bartender gave out peanuts. However, Smythe-Whiting did notice several Catholic religious symbols on his jacket. Good.

"How dare you fire on a British ship! We are in international waters, and I will have your head for this, by God I will sir!" Smythe-Whiting said.

It was the 'by God' that did it. The Captain's right hand balled into a fist and lashed out, catching Smythe-Whiting across the face, and dropping him to the deck. The British crew gasped and Olson moved forward, but the Spanish marines had them well-covered.

"Do not bark at me, dog." The Spanish Captain's voice was deceptively mild. "And do not refer to God, heretic. You will pay for what you have done."

Smythe-Whiting raised a hand to his throbbing cheek as he rose to his feet. "What are you talking about? In the name of God you have started-"

The Spanish Captain raised a finger. "You dare? You dare to speak to me of what you have done?" The Spanish Captain surveyed the ship, his eyes lingering on the '62' emblazoned on the hull. "You sail into my harbor, you fire on our citizens, you sink a ship – and you DARE TO SPEAK OF GOD TO ME." The Spanish captain's composure broke. He growled. "The attack you did this morning will make all of you HANG once we get back to Santiago de Cuba – and I will see to it-"

"Captain!" The Spanish Captain whirled on de Grasse, who interrupted him. "Please sir, what attack are you talking about?"

The Spaniard turned and regarded de Grasse. "The attack this morning, made by this ship - number 62 -on Santiago de Cuba!"

De Grasse looked non-plussed. "Captain, I do not know what happened this morning in Cuba, but I have been with this ship since before dawn. I assure you that we have been nowhere near-"

"Lies!" snarled this Spanish captain. He strode over to de Grasse. "And who are you?"

The Frenchman drew himself up. "I am Captain-Lieutenant de Grasse of the French Navy."

The Spaniard snarled again. "A likely story. I think it more likely you are a British sailor in a French uniform. Or maybe a Frenchman serving a different master. He turned to the American. "Who are you?"

"Lieutenant John F. Kennedy, United States Navy."

"And Lieutenant Kennedy, do you also claim that this boat did not launch an unprovoked and ungodly attack this morning."

"I do, I protest this illegal seizure-"

"Bah. I do not care about your protests. I will let the governor in Cuba decide your fates. But personally, I will enjoy seeing you hang."

The British crew, JFK, and a furiously protesting de Grasse were unceremoniously loaded aboard the small boat, and rowed over to the Alvarez.

March 4th, 1945

Hannover, Electorate of Hannover

Count Georg von Muller stared in shock at his visitor. The ornate study he was in was silent except for the ticking of a grandfather clock, and von Muller's own breathing. Folding his hands on his desk, he idly fingered his signet ring, emblem of his office as Prime Minister to his Grace the Duke of Brunswick-Luneburg, the official ruler of the Electorate of Hannover.

Of course, von Muller did most of the actual ruling as his Grace was rather busy with his other duties. Because of course in London, the Duke of Brunswick-Luneburg was better known as George IX, King-Emperor of the British Empire.

Hannover had prospered – both in terms of territory and economically through its close association with the global hyperpower that was the British Empire. Despite occupying the central part of a large swath of the North German Plain, Hannover could sit securely, knowing none of its neighbors would dare attack the personal lands of the British King-Emperor. Normally, that was.

Of course, these were most assuredly not normal times, thought von Muller ruefully. The Event which had sundered the Empire and brought this hugely powerful 'United States of America' had seen to end of normality. Still, it had seemed far away from Hannover. The United States had been at war with a unified Germany (and the idea that the squabbling Dukedoms, Electorates, Bishoprics and Princedoms that comprised the 'Holy Roman Empire' could ever experience true political unity was almost inconceivable to von Muller) in the world it had come from, and Hannover had followed the Japanese example in making sure that the Americans did not confuse Hannover with these dreadful-sounding Nazis. Even now, Hanoverian businessmen were busily traversing America, marveling at the technology and products that were available. Indeed, for all the damage the United States' arrival had done to the Empire, it seemed that there was money to be made – a lot of money at that.

Except that of course the … information his visitor had brought him threatened to end of all that.

Von Muller licked his lips and stared, and then spoke. "I'm sorry, Your Grace, I'm not sure that I heard you properly."

Michael Pembroke, Duke of Devon, smiled ingratiatingly. "My dear Count, it isn't that hard to understand. Using some recently rediscovered texts in the British Museum, the Royal Society has determined that the current Duke of Pomerania is in fact, illegitimate under Agnatic Succession. While the British Empire eschews such medieval practices, we must respect the Rule of Law, and Agnatic Succession does apply to the Grand Duchy. Under the terms of the 1836 Congress, we are obligated to support the rightful ruler of Pomerania."

Von Muller stared again. "Let me understand this. You say that the current ruler of Pomerania is illegitimate."

Pembroke nodded.

"And," von Muller continued, "we are making this determination on the fact that from 1891 – 1893, the current Duke's Grandmother served as regent for her at the time young son, the current Duke's father, before he came into his majority."

Pembroke frowned. "Yes, well, that was the public record. However, the documents that the British Museum found point to her ruling in actuality as opposed to in name of her son. This is a violation of Pomeranian Law, and means that the Duke's line is now illegitimate. In fact, were she still alive, the current Pretender's Grandmother would be liable for criminal prosecution. As it is, her actions have disqualified the current Duke, and made someone else the legitimate ruler of Pomerania."

Von Muller stared again. He was almost dumbstruck. This was almost beyond ridiculous.

In front of him Pembroke did his best not to squirm. The Americans could not be allowed to have a base in Germany – they simply could not. And crushing Pomerania would not eliminate that base, but serve as a warning to anyone else who thought that they could thwart the will of London. The … legalistic fiction … that he was spinning for von Muller was simply a smoke screen. And both men knew it.

Von Muller spoke again. "So what does this have to do with Hannover?"

Pembroke leaned forward. "Again, under the terms of the 1836 Congress, the Empire has an obligation to uphold the local laws of succession." Pembroke grimaced to himself again. This legal fiction had its roots in an almost-unknown sub-clause of the third addendum to the Congress Treaty which was being broadly – VERY broadly – interpreted. The clause read that the British and other powers of the Congress would respect local succession traditions. It hadn't said anything about a requirement to enforce that, but one couldn't have everything.

Pembroke continued. "When we discussed this with the Pomeranians, they informed us that they disagreed with our interpretation, and even went so far as to question the legitimacy of the documents themselves. This is, of course unacceptable to His Grace."

Von Muller frowned. "His Grace the Prime Minister?"

Pembroke smiled sadly. "No, my Lord. Unacceptable to his Grace the Duke of Brunswick-Luneburg." More gently. "Your Liege Lord."

"I see." Von Muller said. He didn't see, not really, but nodded. "And did my Liege share with you what he wanted me to do to address this regrettable situation?"

"He did, My Lord. He wants Hannover to restore the rightful ruler of Pomerania – His Grace Werner Von Haupt, to the throne. And do it by April 15th."

Von Muller's mouth fell open. Von Haupt was a distant relative to the King-Emperor, and not a good one at that. A young man known for making the scandal broadsheets in Britain more than anything else, and now being thrust into a role as Duke. As for April 15th – well, he didn't understand that at all. Von Muller covered his surprise quickly enough and spoke again. "And since the Pomeranians are questioning all of this evidence, how is Hannover supposed to do this?"

Pembroke leaned forward. "Well, Hannover does have an army Count von Muller, and last time I checked, it was a good deal bigger than Pomerania's."

March 3rd, 1945

The Red October Bar, Moscow, Russian Empire

"More Vodka!" the man slumped at end of the bar shouted. Natasha looked nervous – the man was large and clearly not sober, but poured another glass and started to walk down to him. Gusarov intercepted her on the way, and took the glass. He politely shooed her away. Natasha looked relieved and thankful, and Gusarov smiled at her as she scurried off to another table. He glanced down to the enormous bouncer at the door. Boris – who was at least 6'6 and had formerly served as a Sergeant in the Tsar's Army, nodded at Gusarov, and moved a little closer to the bar.

Gusarov took the vodka, and set it down before the man. "Perhaps you've had enough, my friend." He hadn't seen the man in here before, and he was sitting alone. Boris watched them closely.

"Thanks." The man sat up, looking a lot less drunk and gazed into Gusarov's eyes. "Comrade." He leaned closer to Gusarov, and said very quietly. "If it makes you feel any better, Gusarov, you are once again serving the Soviet Union." The man downed the vodka with a satisfied smile.

Gusarov froze. He glanced around the Red October. No one – aside from Boris – was paying them any heed. Gusarov took a deep breathe, and waved Boris off. The bouncer moved away, but kept his eyes on his boss.

Gusarov turned to man at the bar. "Who are you?"

The man smiled, twirling his now empty glass. "Would you believe Georgi Zhukov?"

"No."

The man smiled again. "I guess not. But you can call me that anyway."

Gusarov frowned. "You didn't answer my question."

"No, I didn't, did I." 'Zhukov' sighed, and put the glass down. "My real name isn't important. But I was an assistant economic attache to the Soviet Embassy in Washington DC."

Gusarov frowned again. The Tsarist intelligence services were a sad joke compared to what the Soviet Union had, but it paid to be careful. "Then you can certainly tell me who the Soviet Foreign minister was."

"Vyacheslav Molotov. He succeeded Maxim Litinov in 1939."

Gusarov nodded. "So what can I do for you, Comrade?"

Zhukov pursed his lips. "Well, seeing as how the Plutocrats of Wall Street now represent the Vanguard of the Revolution, I work for the US State Department now."

"I see. I think we both know a certain silver-tongued US Army colonel."

Zhukov nodded, grinning wryly. "Strange times, Comrade, strange times." He straightened. "Anyway, I am your official contact. Nothing to instruct right now, but Washington does want to know if you've made any progress."

Gusarov frowned. "Some, but I need more time. The people of this Russia lack a certain revolutionary spirit."

Zhukov scowled. "Yes, I am finding that as well. I do not think that we can sponsor any kind of revolt before the Americans act decisively."

Gusarov nodded. He'd figured that. "So what do we do?"

Zhukov ran a forefinger along the rim of the glass. "Prepare for the aftermath, Comrade. Prepare for the aftermath."


	16. Many losses

**LEGAL NOTICE: THE TWO GEORGES NOVEL BELONGS TO HARRY TURTLEDOVE AND RICHARD DREYFUSS. THE FOLLOWING STORY IS MIKE TURCOTTE'S. With that out of the way, enjoy!**

* * *

 _ **March 6, 1945**_

 _ **Stralsund, Grand Duchy of Pomerania  
**_  
Well, thought Stuwe, you somehow get moved to an almost-medieval world. And in an almost-medieval world, things like this … activity … are their idea of justice.

Stuwe was crouched in the dirt, on his knees. And standing above him was a man holding a huge sword up, ready to bring it down on Stuwe. In the cold early morning light, the weak sun glinted off the edge of the blade.

Idly, Stuwe wondered how sharp it was.

Gathered around were hundreds of people – most local grandees and Stralsund city officials. There were also several Pomeranian military officials – most of whom had 'real' jobs out of the military. The US ambassador – Kohn – was there. Finally, the Grand Duke himself was there. They'd taken the time – and the effort – to erect a viewing platform for the Duke. Stuwe had thought it a foolish waste of time; the time and effort spent constructing the platform on the spot were far greater than the ceremony warranted.

A gaudily dressed man – although to Stuwe almost everyone was gaudily dressed – was ostentatiously looking at a gold pocket watch. All eyes were on this man, and, at an appointed time, he looked up to the man with the sword, and nodded gravely.

The sword descended with surprising speed, but the man wielding it was obviously skilled. Stuwe barely felt the blade tap first his left shoulder and then his right. In the background, a seneschal's voice droned on about how Stuwe was now von Stuwe, Knight of the Realm and defender of the Faith. Stuwe tuned it out. He saw this as a waste of time; every moment spent on this silliness was a moment that the British – Stuwe couldn't bring himself to think that he was about to fight fellow Germans – penetrated further into Pomerania. However, the law of the land was that only a noble could command the forces of the Duke, and if Stuwe was to command the Pomeranian 1st Panzer Regiment. Calling the formation a 'regiment' was ridiculous since they was barely a company of the small panzers, but no more ridiculous than this ceremony.

At last the ceremony was over, and Stuwe – now Colonel von Stuwe of the Pomeranian Army trotted over to his command. Several other ex-POWs were included in the 'regiment' along with the Pomeranians. Stuwe would be relying on those men, he knew, as none of the natives could yet drive.  
As he approached the command vehicle, he noted Kohn coming up. With a broad – and completely uncharacteristic smile, Kohn handed over of all things a large suitcase. "Here you are, Colonel. Everyone needs clean clothes for a military campaign."

Stuwe grunted at the weight and looked up at the US Ambassador who was still grinning – this time at the crowd. Stuwe took the case and smiled back. Whatever was in the suitcase, it was far too heavy for clothes. Kohn turned to him and ostentatiously shook his hand. In a much quitter voice, Kohn spoke. "I think you'll find that useful, Colonel. Please don't open it until you are out of sight."

Stuwe smiled back. He still didn't like the American that much, but he'd take what help he could.

* * *

 **** ** _ **March 8th, 1945**_**

 _ **Manila, Republic of the Philippines  
**_  
Daryl Kinney grinned at the pretty Filipino girls who were above him on the balcony of a Manila hotel. They mostly ignored him and his friends from the Owen, but Kinney didn't really care. He was slightly inebriated, but several of his buddies were hammered, and they moved as a happy loud group through the brightly lit Manila night.

Fireworks lit the sky, and sounds of raucous celebration were everywhere. The celebration was understandable; it wasn't every day that your country achieved independence, as the brand-new Republic of the Philippines had that day at noon. The formal independence ceremonies – of which Daryl Kinney and the USS Owen – had been a part were complete, and now Kinney and his mates were enjoying Manila's new freedom.

Manila itself was brightly decorated, but still shabby under all the bunting. Three years of Japanese occupation had taken their toll on the colonial city, and even now electrical service was spotty at best. US engineers were fixing that, and Kinney was just glad the US Army hadn't had to land and clear the place street by street as had been feared. The Japanese of this world had seemingly kept to their word, though Kinney – and for that matter most Americans – still didn't trust them. Rumor was that small detachments of the US Army and Philippine scouts were still hunting down Japanese holdouts from the old world in the countryside and on some of the smaller islands of the Philippine archipelago.

Kinney vastly preferred the warmth of Manila to the frigid wastes of the Aleutians, and wasn't shy about expressing it. He been delighted when he'd found that the Owen was part of the US Task Force that would be taking part of the independence ceremonies in Manila. Kinney loved a good party – who didn't – and a chance to leave Dutch Harbor – especially now that the Russian Pacific Fleet was reduced to a couple what the people of this world called destroyers and what the US Navy called easy targets – there wasn't great call for combat ships. Kinney had seen a considerable Army build-up over the winter, and lots of landing craft, but a significant portion of the modern fleet that had crushed the Russians had been detached to participate in the proceedings here.

And, after the party, a US taskforce – 2 modern BBs, several CVs and CVLs and even more CAs and smaller ships including the Owen – would be taking up permanent station at Subic Bay, north of Manila. Kinney had thought that overkill – but then he thought of the ceremony, and realized it was not.

Kinney – along with literally thousands of US service personnel – had been at the various ceremonies that day. Also there were ambassadors from the various states around the new Republic of the Philippines. The Dutch, Spanish, British, Japanese, and a couple of people from what Kinney called China, but was apparently made up of several states here had attended. They had been polite enough through the ceremony, and Kinney had grinned when a ceremonial broadside (blanks, thankfully) had been fired from the BRP Republic (until noon that day the USS Idaho) to mark the conclusion of the ceremony had made them all flinch. Kinney had grinned – the Idaho and the other ships the USA had given the new Republic a small, and to the US, totally outdated navy. But compared to the other states, the Republic of the Philippines now had the most powerful navy in the Pacific.

Or would, once the US Navy got done training enough Filipinos to actually run the ships. For now, the 'Philippine' Navy was staffed almost exclusively by 'advisors' from the US Navy.

Kinney's thoughts turned to what he'd seen after the ceremony. He'd been asked to form part of an honor guard to help escort the foreign dignitaries to the Admiral Hotel. While the ambassadors and their retinues had been composed and aloof during the short journey to the hotel, afterwards, Kinney had caught a couple of the junior aides to the Spanish ambassador talking in a side hall. Kinney hadn't been seen, and had enough high-school Spanish to glean some of what he'd heard. While outwardly calm, the tones of the aides had been anything but. They were clearly furious – furious at the ceremony, furious at the 'peasant and commoner' Filipinos for not accepting their (from what Kinney had heard crazy) emperor in Madrid as their liege lord, furious at the power of the BRP Republic, furious that the US was willingly granting independence to a province of their Empire and furious that they could do nothing about any of it.

There had been such vitriol in their voices, such utter hate and scorn, that Kinney had been taken aback. He was no stranger to anger, and he supposed that the Spanish – who had owned the Philippines prior to the event – had a right to be angry. But it wasn't the Philippines' fault that the Event had happened. There wasn't anything anyone – even the United States – could do about the Event but try to soldier through.

Kinney had wondered about the timing of the turnover to independence here. He'd been given to understand that it had been originally scheduled for July 4th – both to correspond to America's own Independence Day and to have more time to clean up the city and pacify the countryside. Those plans had changed, and this world welcomed – or at least some did – it's second republic, and America had a new - and real - ally.

Thinking back to those Spaniards he'd seen, Daryl Kinney was glad that their technology was so far behind America's. For now at least. Kinney sincerely hoped it stayed that way, too.

* * *

 **** ** _ **March 9th, 1945**_**

 _ **Perpignan, Kingdom of France  
**_  
The term 'the tension was thick enough to cut with a knife' was one the Marquis De Rochefort had heard plenty of times. He'd thought he understood it – it was a simple enough phrase after all.

He'd been wrong – he'd had no comprehension of what it meant.

Unfortunately, he did now.

The Palace of the Kings of Majorca in Perpignan served as the venue for what was to be, Rochefort knew, one of the pivotal meetings in the history of the Holy Alliance of the great Catholic powers of Europe – France and Spain.

Perhaps the last meeting of that alliance.

Rochefort had studied the United States – all world leaders had of course – and while he despised the idea of a Republic to the core, he couldn't help but wonder if it had certain advantages at certain times. Like this one. In the United States, he understood that there were provisions – legal provisions – to remove a sitting president if that individual were overcome by disease or accident.

Monarchies – like France – had no such provision.

The French King – Louis XXI of the House of Bourbon was on his deathbed. No one called it that of course, and no one publically admitted that. However, the French king had been unable to accompany Rochefort to Perpignan; he was confined to Paris while he 'recovered' – an event that would not happen. However, given the importance of this meeting, the Crown Prince – the soon to be Louis XXII – was attending in the King's stead.

That was beyond unfortunate, in Rochefort's mind.

Before he'd left Paris, Rochefort had met with the King, and - in a rare moment of lucidity - the King had given what was, for intents and purposes the Prime Minister of France clear instructions. The alliance with Spain – whatever their position – was to be maintained. Unless it involved waging war on the United States, France would stay with her ally.

Rochefort – like all in government – had been shocked by the massive American naval victory in the Aleutians. That the technical superiority of the newcomers – especially at sea – was so massive as to be untouchable and that was deeply disturbing. However, the Americans had seemed disinclined to turn their power against anyone except the idiotic Russians. Rochefort was sure it was only a matter of time – some time perhaps, but only time – until the inherent weaknesses of the Republican form of government brought about the downfall of the United States, or that the inherent strengths of the aristocracies around the world enabled other powers to catch up to – and eventually surpass – the United States in technical sophistication.

That time was not now, however, and war with the United States – which could only have one outcome barring direct divine intervention – was to be avoided at all costs – even that of the Alliance.

Fortunately the Spanish – while clearly hating the United States and what it stood for – had made the same calculation – and were not calling for war with the Americans.

However, that made the meeting all the more tense. The conference hadn't even started and already things had gone completely wrong.  
Perpignan was chosen as the meeting site because it was roughly halfway between Paris and Madrid, it was relatively small, isolated, and away from as many prying eyes as a meeting of this import could warrant. The young Spanish Emperor had taken the intent to heart, and arrived with minimal fanfare and a small retinue of advisors, aides, priestly confidants, and bodyguards. His appearance was quiet, understated, and serious.  
The Dauphin's appearance was not quiet or understated, and was a far from serious as one could get. This was his first real international conference without his father, and he was putting his own indelible stamp on it.

Rochefort could not help but sigh as he took in the Dauphin's appearance. The man was almost 50 years old, but dressed as a dandy – like someone from the court of Louis XIV. That the Dauphin was a playboy, free with ladies and utterly unconcerned about what that meant was a non-issue in Paris and most places – the Dauphin had – for the sake of appearances, married and even produced an heir that Rochefort was fairly certain was legitimate (along with several other illegitimate children with other ladies) – in Spain, it was an issue.

Personal behavior was not an issue for most – indeed there were homosexuals in positions of power throughout most of Europe and Asia – and they were accepted in what Rochefort thought as the civilized world (even if they did have at least put in the appearance of marriage and family), in Spain and some of the Italian states, the seemingly resurgent Catholic Church was steadfastly opposed to any kind of accommodation with 'sin' – be it homosexuality or simple adultery. This was surprising as Rochefort's agents had reported – quietly – that any number of Catholic priests – including some close to the Spanish Emperor himself – were not … completely true to their oaths in regards to chastity with both sexes.

None of that would have mattered, except for the foolishness of the Dauphin. The man had chaffed for years at the edge of power, while his father grew more and more incapacitated but stubbornly refused to die. Worse, the young, handsome, and capable Spanish Emperor had been the talk of aristocratic circles for years – leaving the Dauphin very much in the shadow of the younger man. Now, finally, after decades, the domineering presence of the king was absent, and the prince had given leave to himself to act out – like a spoiled teenager instead of a man nearing 50. Instead of recognizing the attitudes of the Spanish – and gravity of the conference – or letting Rochefort lead the proceedings – he arrived to much fanfare – with actual trumpets to the large ballroom which was serving as the conference room. The Spanish Emperor had googled at the Dauphin's gaudy appearance – a huge wig, heavily rouged cheeks, and – in what Rochefort supposed was a concession to the military aspect of the conference – a highly burnished cuirass bearing the Bourbon arms. The whole effect was spoiled somewhat by the pot belly which bulged below the lip of the cuirass, but the intent was clear enough.

Now the conference was begun, and the Spanish Emperor was either unable – or didn't care – to hide his disdain of the Prince. And the Dauphin – and his retinue – were most assuredly noticing.

Rochefort was trying to ignore the interplay between the Emperor and Dauphin, and focus on substantive matters. "And the observers in the city – in Santiago de Cuba – were certain of the identity of the vessel in question?"

He was answered by the Spanish Duke of Darien. While Cuba was not part of the Duke's personal holdings, he was serving as Viceroy to the Spanish Main, and Rochefort knew that the Spanish Emperor relied on the man. A solid man in his late 40s, the Duke had impressed Rochefort with his intelligence and level-headedness. If the conference had been led by Rochefort and Darien, the Frenchmen felt certain it would be a success.

Darien was answering. "Quite certain, your Grace. We have multiple eyewitness accounts, from the those ashore and those on the various vessels that were in the harbor at the time, from commoners and from men of quality. On my journey here, my airship stopped in Cuba, and I myself saw the damage to the city, and I spoke with officials there. I have no doubt that the accounts of what happened were accurate."

Rochefort frowned. "And your ship – the Alvarez – it apprehended the British vessel responsible?"

"It did your Grace. At some point after leaving Cuba the British suffered some kind of engine malfunction, leaving them becalmed. They struck after the Alvarez fired a warning shot."

Rochefort nodded. "And then the confusion starts?"

"Indeed. There was a French officer on board the British ship – and an American as well. The British, of course, deny having anything to do with any attack on Cuba, and while we would expect them to lie, both the Frenchman and the American corroborate the British story. They claim that the ship never went to Cuba." Darien leaned back in his seat. "Per my liege's standing instructions regarding contact with the United States, I released the American. Before he left, I interviewed him. He was a young man, Irish by his name, and backed up the British story. He seemed completely sincere."

"And the Frenchman?" asked Rochefort.

"I spoke with him as well-"

Darien was cut off by the Dauphin. "You are to release him at once."

Dead silence reigned in the room. The Spanish Emperor broke it. "Your Grace, I do not think you should make demands on me. Your man – if he is indeed your man – was involved in an incident with us. While I – and Spain – am prepared to consider that this was some kind of complicated plot spawn by the British to sow discord, we must be satisfied that this man intended no mischief towards us."

Rochefort spoke. "Your Majesty, if I may." The Spanish Emperor faced the Frenchman. "It seems to me that this attack in Cuba was simply the latest in a string of unexplained incidents in and around the Caribbean. I think that we need more time to investigate what is really happening here."

The Emperor frowned. "We have had investigators looking at these incidents for some time, and they have not been able to uncover-"

"Perhaps French investigators would succeed where you have failed, Your Majesty." Rochefort looked up in undisguised horror as the Dauphin interrupted the Emperor. Several in the Dauphin's entourage giggled as the Emperor's face clouded over with fury.

"Your Grace!" Rochefort hissed, unconcerned with protocol. "His Majesty was speaking!"

"Yes he was, dear boy" the Dauphin said drolly, "but he wasn't really saying anything now, was he? And besides, we still have not resolved the issue of the French officer held in Cuba. If memory serves, I had just mentioned getting my father's subject released, had I not?"

Darien had been whispering urgently in the Emperor's ear. While he didn't look any happier, the cloud of fury passed, and Emperor regarded the Dauphin levelly. Rochefort shot Darien a quick nod of thanks.

"I was unaware that you knew the officer in question, your Grace." The Emperor's voice was mild.

"I make it point to know all of my officers, Your Majesty, especially those with pretty wives." The Dauphin's retinue tittered at this. "Or daughters." The tittering grew to giggles. "Oh, let's be honest, mothers and aunts as well. I'm not particular." The giggles grew to outright laughter. The levity of the Dauphin's entourage was not returned by the Spanish.

Rochefort spoke, desperate to move on. "What are your intentions, Your Majesty?"

The Spaniard was regarding the Dauphin the way Rochefort regarded wayward insects in his soup. He turned back to Rochefort. "I intend to issue them an ultimatum: They will publicly admit their guilt for Cuba and the other incidents, apologize, and pay restitution or they will face Spanish arms."

"Your Majesty, I beg you to reconsider. Please allow for more time. The British – if in fact they are responsible here – are acting in a most confusing and atypical manner even for them."

The Emperor waved his arm. "They are heretics. Perhaps God has finally cursed them with the madness they so richly deserve."

The Dauphin spoke. "Will you please stop invoking God? While all pay homage and respect to the Lord our God –"from the Dauphin's condescending tone Rochefort wondered just how much homage and respect that was –"we really should focus on the here and now."

The fury that rose in the Emperor was like a wave – it was visible to all. The Emperor rose from his seat. "The Lord God is **ALWAYS** present – he IS the here and now!"

All in the room flinched back from the Emperor's fury – all save the Dauphin, who regarded the man mildly. "Yes, but God isn't going to solve our problems for us now, is He?" Aware that the Spanish Emperor was looming over all, the Dauphin stood, pot belly sticking out absurdly from the cuirass. He sucked it in a bit, and Rochefort could see the jealously that the Spanish Emperor's trim figure riled in the Dauphin.

"Faith in God is the cornerstone of our lives. Faith in him makes anything possible." The emperor leaned over the Dauphin's table and glared into his eyes.

The Dauphin leaned forward well, until the two men were just inches apart. "Not against the Americans though? Or the British for that matter. Despite everything, Jamaica is still supplied, and the British outweigh us in the New World."

Through his utter horror at the confrontation taking place in front of him, a small part of Rochefort was amazed that the Dauphin actually knew that.

The Emperor's eyes flared. "You disrespect the Lord!"

The Dauphin stared back. "It's not him I disrespect!"

The Spanish Emperor's voice dropped to a dangerous hiss. "We will have satisfaction from the British or we will have war with them. Under the terms of our Alliance, I want to know if His Most Catholic Majesty will support us."

"He will not!" responded the Dauphin.

"Your Grace!" Rochefort managed. "Your father's instructions were clear! We must-"

"My father isn't here! I am! And now, I speak for France. Not you Rochefort, and not anyone else. Me. It's my turn, and I say no!"

The Emperor glared for a moment, and then straightened. "So be it." He turned and stalked from the room, his entourage following him.

Darien shot Rochefort a pitying look, and left as well.

Rochefort turned and looked at the Dauphin who was still fuming. The only thing he could see in his mind was a single word: Idiot.

* * *

 **** ** _ **March 9th, 1945**_**

 _ **St. Petersburg, Russian Empire  
**_  
The Winter Palace in St. Petersburg was one of the great royal residences in all of Europe. Had a visitor from the United States who was familiar with the same complex in what the Soviet Union called Leningrad, he or she would have noted many differences. The fire of 1837 had not happened on this Earth, but a smaller one had in 1874. The Palace had been rebuilt along more British Imperial lines – almost like a scaled up Buckingham or Kensington Palace – as the Tsar at the time was seeking the favor of the British. A large observatory had been added in 1932 – a gift from the current Tsar's father to his second wife, who had been fascinated with astronomy.

Count Piotr Golovin – back to St. Petersburg on a quick visit from Washington DC where he spent his time masquerading as a Dutch embassy official – had always thought the Palace garish and too large. He also didn't like St. Petersburg. Oh, he recognized the importance of Russia's ties to the outside world. He much preferred Moscow – it was far less ostentatious, and more economically important to the Russian Empire.

And Moscow was, if he understood such things properly, still out of the range of the American heavy bombers that could turn St. Petersburg into ruins.

Golovin stared at the dome of the Observatory. He pursed his lips as he contemplated it. In many ways it was symbolic of the situation that Russia now found itself in. The Tsar's father – Vassily IV – had been middle aged when his wife had died in 1924. Vassily IV had been thrown into a deep depression – he'd loved his wife – and for a few years moped around while the Empire was run by the bureaucracy. Then, in 1928, he'd met a German princess from Bavaria. The woman – girl really - had been 26 at the time, and Vassily IV had been 59. Beautiful and blonde, the Tsar had fallen completely in love with her. The love was – at some level at least – reciprocated, and the two were married in a grand celebration in 1929 in St. Petersburg.

The German princess – Elsa was her name – had replaced the Tsar's previous wife Anna – and finally the Tsar had been able to let it go – the despair over his first wife's death, that was. Like a teenager in love, the Tsar had doted on his new bride. In return, Elsa had taken the Russian people by storm. She was a quick study with language, and seemingly had a warm heart – though Golovin had always found her to be a bit of an ice queen in person. She had also adopted the Russian faith, and made many allies in the Russian clergy.

Those allies had proved useful when Vassily IV died in 1939. While everyone had assumed that Mikhail III – the Tsar's first son from his first wife Anna – would take over as Tsar, Elsa hadn't seen it that way. Her son – Vladimir – was 9 years old at the time, and she had secured a deathbed revision to the Tsar's will naming her son as the heir, and herself as regent.

The Russian public still didn't know the particulars of the … dreadful struggle … that had taken place in the Palace in days after the Tsar's death. They knew that the blood on the floors had been thick, for if Elsa had secured the support of the clergy and the courtiers, the military had backed Mikhail. In the end, it had proven decisive. What had happened that Elsa and Vladimir were not simply killed after Mikhail arose was a mystery to most, but it was known that Elsa was exiled somewhere safe, with certain items – paper, documents, attestations, and the like, that could secure the throne for Vladimir. Vladimir was sent to London, to be raised as a ward of the British Court, and Elsa …

Elsa was exiled to the most distant province in the Empire, Alaska.

A relatively comfortable monastery, where she could live out her days in peace, secure that she had the evidence needed to keep Vladimir safe.

Golovin knew the true story – or at least most of it. Elsa had been winning the fight with Mikhail – and was on verge of securing the throne when the British had intervened. Their agents – money in the form of bribes - had helped turn the tide. They had worked out the deal that kept Elsa alive and Vladimir in London – a Sword of Damocles over Mikhail's head. And they kept copies of the Tsar's will. The British had secured the stability of Russia and made the Tsar into a virtual vassal – all for almost no cost to themselves.

In his time in Washington, Golovin had seen the British try to put into the place the same kinds of machinations and plots they had employed in Russia – and elsewhere – to maintain their near-monopoly on power. He hated them for it at the same time he admired their skill. But the United States was a very different beast than many of the states on this world, and frankly Golovin doubted that whatever the British were up to in the Caribbean would work out as they intended.

"I hear it was burned on the other Earth," a voice said behind him.

Golovin turned to see Georgi Pavlov, Count of Pskov, and a close friend.  
The men grinned at each other and engaged in a hug. They separated, and Golovin looked up at the Palace again. "Yes, in 1837. Then the revolutionaries – these Soviets – damaged it in 1905 and again in 1917. Also, they never had an observatory."

Pavlov nodded. "And have you met any in America – these Soviets?"

Golovin sighed. "I have. Most unpleasant people they are. Peasants through and through, spouting on about some vague economic theory – from Germany of all places – called communism. I didn't get all the details – apparently there are several competing schools of thought on this 'communism' – but the stories of the revolution are simply ghastly."

Golovin shuddered, and wondered if that one Russian princess – Anastasia – had in fact escaped to America. "And these 'Soviet' creatures that replaced the legitimate Tsar – well, they must have been utterly incompetent. They and their leader – he called himself 'Stalin' if you can believe that – allowed the Germans – of all people the Germans – to get to Moscow." Golovin shook his head. "It is good to get home, even if only for a brief time."

Pavlov smiled. "It's good to see you Piotr – and they are waiting for you at court."

"And how are things at court?" asked Golovin.

A shrug. "Not good, as you can imagine. The news from the Aleutians was … taken poorly by His Majesty."

Golovin grunted. Mikhail was an interesting man. He was bright, and generally level-headed. But he had … episodes – usually brought on by bad news. During these episodes, he exploded in rage. It was if he was possessed by a demon. He'd rage at all around him, and his rage could manifest itself as direct physical violence. It was … irritating in the extreme to those who ran the Russian government, but was there to be done? Nothing – the man was the legitimate Tsar of Russia.

Pavlov nodded again. "And the Americans – how do you find them?"

"Young, naïve, irritating, boisterous, open and generally friendly." Golovin shrugged. "If not for the fact that they are going to kill us all, I might find myself liking them."

"Surely it's not that bad-"

Golovin spun reptile-fast. "No, it's worse! Georgi, I beg you-" Golovin took a deep breath calming himself. "Count Pavlov, you must understand – the Aleutians were not a fluke or bad luck, or because the Grand Duke was a poor admiral. You do not understand the technology that the Americans have. It is …" he paused, struggling to find the right words "it is like magic. They can see everything, every move we make. And they can bring vast armies and fleets of these aeroplanes from the skies."

Pavlov stared.

"They do not fight like we do, Georgi. They are different. They will devastate our cities, and kill our people and we can do nothing to stop them."

"Then we had better find a way. The Tsar will not make peace, the British … well, they advise against it …" said Pavlov.

"To the Devil with the British and their schemes!" Golovin was almost shouting. With a visible effort, he calmed himself. "We should make peace anyway we can – if the Americans will even listen at this point."

Pavlov sighed. "If we do, the British will return him to St. Petersburg with the documentation. Elsa's supporters are already calling the Event and our defeat in the Aleutians signs from the Almighty that Mikhail isn't the true Tsar. If Vladimir comes home, it would mean civil war!"

"Good!" hissed Golovin. At Pavlov's surprised look he sighed. "Not 'good', Georgi, just – not as bad as what the Americans will do to us. And yes, I understand how insane that sounds. If we can get peace with the United States then a civil war is a price I am more than willing to pay." He sighed again. "Georgi, the British are using us. They forced us to sacrifice our Pacific Fleet just so that they could see how the American Navy would perform. Now, they will sacrifice our infantry, our cavalry, and our cities just so that they can study how the Americans perform on land. And we – God curse us – we are letting them do it!"

Pavlov looked horrified. "Lower your voice!" He looked around. "We don't have a choice. His Majesty is set upon this course."

"Then we must change his mind. The body and soul of our empire demands this, Georgi, and I am counting on you to help me."

* * *

 **** ** **March 10, 1945****

 **Washington DC, United States of America  
**  
Dean Acheson looked across at the young naval Lieutenant Commander sitting across from him. With him was Bill Donovan, head of the OSS.  
If the lieutenant commander – one John F. Kennedy – and Acheson reminded himself that he was the scion of **THOSE** Kennedys from Massachusetts – was calm, especially give the august company he was in.  
While the Spanish might not much care for the United States, they were not, evidently, fools, as evidenced by Kennedy's release.

"And you are certain, Mr. Kennedy, that the account given to us by the Spanish is incorrect?"

JFK nodded. "I was with the boat the entire day. We never went anywhere near Cuba." He frowned. "I will say this. We did sail on the Alvarez to Santiago de Cuba. I did see evidence of damage, although it was relatively slight. Whether that was due to an attack, or some other cause, I couldn't say."

Donovan spoke. "And the Spanish – were the genuinely outraged, or could this have been staged?"

JFK frowned. "I don't speak Spanish, so I couldn't really tell. They certainly seemed angry enough. The local grandee – I think his name was Castro – anyway he was really mad."

"And the circumstances of your release," asked Acheson.

"I was put in an unpleasant holding cell – apparently, since I wasn't a noble, I didn't rate the nicer place. A couple of days later, another Spaniard appeared. He was evidently someone of note, because they suddenly took me from the cell, questioned me, let me take a bath, and fed me. Then they took to me Guantanamo, released me to the US garrison there, and, well, you know the rest."

Acheson nodded. "You're dismissed, Lieutenant. Please wait outside for a moment."

After JFK left, Acheson looked at Donovan. "Well?" he asked.

The OSS chief shook his head. "I don't get it. While I'm not impressed with the Spanish here, I can't believe that they'd simply make this up. Combine this thing with the patrol boat with the other stuff in the Caribbean … well, I just don't have a clear enough picture of what is going on."

"Can you get one?" asked Acheson.

Donovan nodded. "We haven't been paying that much attention to the area – maybe that was a mistake. I need to talk to the boss, but yeah. The Petropavlovsk operation kicks off soon, and the Navy is getting the place in the Faeroes ready, so I can refocus my attention."

"You hear about Pomerania?" Acheson was scowling. "Is that really some succession thing or is something else going on?"

"It's hard to say – my boys are still sorting through it. I gotta tell you Dean – this thing stinks to high Heaven."

Acheson nodded. "Will it hold? We need that place."

Donovan shrugged again. "They have those baby tanks and a bunch of ex-POWs to run them. I dunno. We are going to help them as we can with air recon and the like. If they can hold just a couple of weeks, I think the Navy can slam a Marine division through to Stralsund."

Acheson nodded. "Once we have official boots on the ground, I can formalize the relationship and tell the Hanoverians to go home – or else."

Donovan leaned forward. "I need your help with this Dean – we gotta make FDR see that the British here aren't our friends. Not like Churchill was at any rate. I think this thing in the Caribbean and the situation in Germany are linked somehow, but the boss won't let me look into it like I should. I want-"

Donovan was cut off when the door to his office slammed open suddenly. He rose from his seat furious at the interruption but the anger died in his mouth when he saw the ashen face of a trusted aide.

"M … Mr. Secretary – President Roosevelt is dead!"

* * *

Transcriber's note: Good lord that Dauphin is an utter ⑨.


	17. Intrigue and conflict

**LEGAL NOTICE: THE TWO GEORGES NOVEL BELONGS TO HARRY TURTLEDOVE AND RICHARD DREYFUSS. THE FOLLOWING STORY IS MIKE TURCOTTE'S. WITH THAT OUT OF THE WAY, ENJOY!**

* * *

 _ **March 21st, 1945**_

 _ **Crown Colony of Gibraltar, Iberian Peninsula**_

The opening salvos of the war came in the expected place – Gibraltar. Far more heavily fortified than in the world the United States came from, the British had used a victory in a brief war in 1843 (which had spurred the formation of the Holy Alliance) against Spain to secure a longer buffer zone. While the official territory of the Crown Colony had not changed, the British did maintain a slice of Spain officially referred to as 'disputed' out almost two miles as far as Campamento. Into this 'disputed' zone the British had raised fortifications unseen anywhere else in the world. Honeycombed with tunnels, supply depots, emplaced artillery, hospitals and sally ports, the area was Gibraltar's – and Britain's Imperial Mediterranean lifeline's – strongest defense.

It worked.

With tensions with Spain rising, the British garrison had been reinforced to three complete infantry divisions, well-supplied, dug-in and aware of what could come at them. In addition to the Royal Navy's Western Mediterranean Fleet, the British had two huge vessels – termed 'Monitors' – stationed at Gibraltar. These ships – the Implacable and the Inflexible – were slow even by the standards of the day, but heavily armored and armed with a variety of guns, artillery and howitzers. They were designed to provide flank support and engage in direct gunnery duels with besieging artillery, for however slow they were, the monitors were mobile-something their opposition was not. Each equipped with a dozen 13" guns, they responded to Spanish artillery in a massive duel of flying steel and shattered rock. The Spanish artillery was also dug in, and for two days the duel went on before the Spanish guns were either silenced or elected to stop. Both monitors were battered, but their heavy armor held.

Spanish infantry made one direct attack on the British positions, but were thrown back with heavy losses.

Count Pedro de Arjona put down his field glasses in horror as hundreds of his men fell. He was the commander of the Spanish 5th Army, and had three complete infantry corps – nine infantry divisions with three attached cavalry brigades – under his command. He knew he outnumbered the British, but there was no way – none at all – that he could take Gibraltar without naval support.

While experienced in various colonial campaigns across the Spanish Empire, this was his, and Spain's first war in almost a century against a European Great Power. The British mortars and machine guns, well emplaced, had slaughtered the attacking Spanish infantry in the hundreds before Arjona had called them back. He needed his artillery to break up the entrenched British defenses, and he couldn't use his artillery while those two damned monitors – to say nothing of the regular British fleet – were out there. And to clear the British fleet to allow for a proper siege, he needed the navy to clear the British ships away. And the navy designated to do that was of course the Spanish Mediterranean fleet supported by the much larger French Mediterranean fleet.

The French, because of the idiocy of the Dauphin, would not be coming.

Arjona fumed. He could easily contain any British attempt to breakout over land from Gibraltar, but he was certain that the British were not even entertaining the idea of such a move. No, they would be content to remain in their fortifications, untouchable, supplied by their Royal Navy, and Arjona could do precisely nothing about it. As a truce descended over the battlefield to allow for the corpsmen to remove and treat the casualties, Arjona's thoughts were dark indeed. He turned to face the North, and while one might have made the reasonable assumption that he was glowering towards Britain, he was not. The British were enemies yes, but they hadn't betrayed Spain. No, that glory fell to the French and their Dauphin, and with the bodies of his dead men before him, Arjona felt a coldness in his heart he hadn't before.

He'd heard that in the world the United States had come from, generals had watched thousands – and even tens of thousands – of their troops die in frontal assaults during a war in the early part of the century. He was under orders from his Emperor – a young man he respected beyond his mere oath to do so – to take Gibraltar. And he would, but not at that cost. He could only hope his Emperor would understand.

 _ **March 22nd, 1945**_

 _ **Malta, Central Mediterranean Sea**_

One place Spanish diplomacy had secured an unexpected coup was in Italy – specifically the Kingdom of the Two Sicilies. Naples – which had supplanted Palermo as the capital - had long fumed over British possession of Malta which it (wrongly) saw as a barrier to its own colonial ambitions in North Africa. It had been relatively simple for the Spanish – utilizing shared ties of history and faith – to secure Italian aid.

A Spanish/Sicilian naval squadron carrying a Spanish infantry division and a Sicilian 'Marine' regiment surprised the two British battalions garrisoning the old fortress at Valletta. The British dutifully manned the old guns and fortifications of the harbor defenses, but the heavy guns of two Spanish protected cruisers and the Sicilian 'battleship' Wrath of God reduced those defenses in short order. In the confusion, the Spanish were able to land in good order and secure the town.

Less successful were the Sicilian 'Marines', most of whom had never seen combat, or even been at sea. The poorly trained conscripts floundered about in the harbor, suffering from both sea-sickness and poor leadership. At Mgarr on Gozo, where a single platoon of British troops – with a machine gun and a mortar - stiffened by the local Constabulary held off the Italians until a Spanish reserve regiment was landed, which quickly overcame resistance.

* * *

 _ **March 28th, 1945**_

 _ **near Brussow, Grand Duchy of Pomerania**_

Stuwe grimaced as another artillery shell landed. The First Pomeranian Panzer Regiment was poised behind a low rise just east of the small town of Brussow. Stuwe vaguely remembered it from a trip in his youth as a pleasant country town, and at first glance it wasn't much changed on this world – albeit more primitive.

It was now hosting two corps of the Royal Hanoverian Army. Long lines of infantry, a massive artillery park, and flashing cavalry lit the scene, or would have, if Stuwe had been looking at them.

He wasn't.

He – and General Walther von Tronch, and Lieutenant Franz Halder were intently studying photographs taken by American aircraft. Those aircraft, circling overhead, were parachuting canisters of photographs to the Pomeranian Army. Stuwe wasn't in the loop of the politics of the situation, but had to imagine the British (who could guess what was happening) were furious.

Stuwe shook his head wryly. Here he was in Germany, helping an American-backed German puppet fight off an attack by a British-backed German puppet so that the United States could attack Russia. The situation was so far beyond bizarre as to be unimaginable.

Von Tronch – a family friend of His Grace the Duke of Pomerania – frowned at von Stuwe. "Was there something amiss, my Lord?" There was a slight emphasis on the 'My Lord' part of the statement. Stuwe and Tronch were officially the same rank, but Tronch's tone spoke volumes about what he thought of Stuwe's nobility. Something that Stuwe noted, and cared not at all about.

"No, My Lord," responded Stuwe. I was just noting the latest intelligence."

"As was I," said von Tronch quickly. "I believe the intelligence supports His Grace's plan."

Stuwe glanced at Halder, who'd also been captured in Tunisia by the Americans. Halder quirked an eyebrow. The grandly named 'Pomeranian High Command' had – after considerable argument (and, Stuwe suspected, some outright bribery and strong-arming from the US Ambassador Kohn) consented to hear Stuwe's advice on their war with Hannover. That being said, the Pomeranians – with precisely zero military experience – had their own ideas about how to proceed.

Von Tronch continued to elucidate. "His Grace wishes to use your Panzers as the centerpiece of a grand assault on the pigs attacking us. A grand charge – one recorded for the ages – will smash them, and send them scurrying back to their hovels!"

Stuwe pursed his lips while he pretended to consider the idiocy of von Tronch's suggestion. The particulars of the plan – such as it was – included using horse cavalry to lead the panzers into battle. He leaned down and looked at Halder, who commanded a small recon group of US-built jeeps.

"What did you find out, Lieutenant?"

"Sir, it was as the Americans said. The main … enemy … force is here in Brussow. The shelling is from their artillery park, and their infantry is arrayed in front of it. They have supporting light artillery and cavalry on the flanks."

"And behind?" asked Stuwe.

"Almost nothing. They have perhaps a regiment of infantry guarding their depot and the bridges in Prenzlau."

"This changes nothing," said von Tronch. "This man's report tells us nothing we didn't already know."

Stuwe held himself in check, and reminded himself that von Tronch was the flexible and reasonable one on the Pomeranian High Command. "Actually, my lord, it does."

Von Tronch cocked an eyebrow.

"For all of the Duke's undoubted courage, I foresee some issues with the glorious charge he recommends. For one thing the Briti-I mean Hanoverians outnumber in us infantry by three to one, in cavalry by four to one and in artillery by almost six to one. Further, their tactical deployment means that they are well positioned to receive just such a charge. I fear we would be slaughtered."

"But your panzers – you have boasted of their impunity to enemy attack!"

Again, Stuwe held himself in check. He'd never said that, but he'd also learned that didn't matter. To suggest that von Tronch was lying could lead to an 'affair on honor', and Stuwe would have to shoot the fool. That would be ... counterproductive. "They are tough, yes, and if we had real panzers rather than these toys, then yes I could recommend that charge." Especially if supported by a couple of squadrons of JU-87s thought Stuwe. Oddly, he almost pitied the Russians when he thought of what the Americans would send at them. Almost pitied. "However, as his Grace as also wisely noticed, another strength of the panzers is their mobility." His Grace had noted no such thing, and Stuwe doubted he possessed the wisdom to notice anything.

Tronch frowned. "We can not simply remain on the defensive, they will crush us before this rumored relief force from the United States arrives."

Stuwe felt something almost like respect come in. von Tronch was correct.

"Of course not, my lord, and I don't recommend that. Instead, what I would recommend is that we fortify our forces against an attack a little further east of here."

"Retreat?!" gasped von Tronch.

"No, my lord, please hear me out." Stuwe raised a placating hand. "While that happens, my panzers, and as many infantry as we can carry and fit into our limited motorized forces will loop west and attack here," Stuwe pointed at Prenzlau. "By doing that, we cut the enemy supply line and their own lines of communication to the west."

Tronch frowned at the map but did not immediately reject the idea, and Stuwe felt a flicker of hope.

"After that," Stuwe said, "the enemy is faced with a choice; either attack the Duke's main force and hope for victory or turn around to retake their supply depot. Either way we win; the enemy numbers are negated by lack of supply if they attack the Duke, and they are moving the wrong way if they attack the panzers."

Tronch frowned some more and then slowly nodded. "But if they turn back – as I suspect they will – the Panzers and whatever infantry we send with them will be gravely outnumbered."

"Yes, my lord, we will be. But in that case we need only hold for a while. After our situation becomes untenable, we can retreat, and use our superior mobility to escape." Stuwe emphasized the fact that he personally would be leading the panzers, and personally in the most dangerous position. "In that case, by the time the enemy gets itself re-supplied, sorted out and is able to advance east again, the Americans will have arrived, and it will be over."

Tronch looked up. "You're confident? I understand you were at war with the United States in the world you came from, and that your perceptions are colored, but you are that confident?"

Stuwe glanced at Halder and then back at Tronch. "Yes, my lord, I am. I promise you a single division of US troops will totally secure Pomerania." And conquer all of Germany if they wish, Stuwe thought, and did not say.

* * *

 _ **April 1st, 1945**_

 _ **near Petropavlovsk, Russian Empire**_

The bright sun sparkled off the waves of the North Pacific Ocean, and glinted from the metal of the US Navy. Two old battleships and two heavy cruisers with various supporting ships provided direct gunfire support to the troops of the US 1st Marine Division, landing on surprisingly even beaches on a flat plain north of Petropavlovsk near the village of Zaozernny. Further offshore, air support was provided by two US Fleet carriers, three CVLs and some jeep carriers.

The assault started at dawn. US fighter planes – bereft of any real air opposition – shot down the two airships the Russian Navy had circling the main port. US torpedo bombers raided the shipping in the port – not that there was much there to raid. The Russians responded as best they could. They lacked radar or even true AA guns, but they had worked hard with what they did have, and a hail of machine gun fire met the US planes. One was actually downed, the pilot bailing out and being captured in short order – but when the US planes left, the port was a smoking ruin, and the rail lines from the small city were thoroughly disrupted.

Of course, this was mostly a diversion – the main US attack was not at Petropavlovsk itself, but at Zaozernny.

Most of the fixed fortifications the Russians had were protecting the harbor; while there were some on the hills around Zaozernny, they were oriented towards the harbor, not the distant beach to the east. The crews of those fortresses tried valiantly to turn their guns towards the Americans, while frantically sending runners to alert the Russian infantry division garrisoning Petropavlovsk.

It was for naught.

The heavy guns of the US battleships and cruisers reduced the forts to rubble in short order. While a battalion of troops was guarding against an American attack, they were all but annihilated by US Naval gunfire. By the time the Russians were able to assemble the rest of the defending division, the US had a complete regiment ashore, with advance units as much as three miles inland.

The Russian division had an attached cavalry brigade, and, gorgeously attired in their Imperial uniforms, thundered off to repel the invaders. They ran into a battalion of US Marine M24 Chaffee light tanks. The US tanks were supported by machine guns, air power, the heavy guns of the US Navy, and some hastily erected Marine artillery. The Russian cavalry was supported by elan and knowledge that they were defending their country against peasant upstarts. Additionally, they had been blessed by priests of the Orthodox Church.

The results were predictable, with the cavalry being almost entirely wiped out. Attempts by the infantry to support the cavalry were repelled by overwhelming US firepower and mobility. 24 hours after the invasion started, the Marines had overrun the city. Meanwhile US Seabees had started construction on an airfield outside of Zaozernny.

The second in command of the Russian Army in Kamchatka (the general in charge had died leading the cavalry attack) was able to get a message – intercepted by the Rangers – out that the Americans had landed and that he was retreating into the city with heavy losses.

The US invasion of the Russian Empire had begun.

* * *

 _ **April 2nd, 1945**_

 _ **Washington DC, United States of America**_

Dean Acheson was happy to still be US Secretary of State. The new president - Harry Truman - had fired Henry Morgenthau, but kept most of the cabinet. He sat in the Oval Office with George Marshall, Bill Donovan, and the President of the United States, Harry Truman.

The change between Truman and Roosevelt was profound. While Roosevelt had seemed barely conscious much of the time, Truman positively boiled over with energy. The new President paced around the Oval Office. He held maps of Petropavlovsk in his hands and studied them intently in the sunlight streaming in through the windows, and then returned to the coffee table in the center of the room.

"So, we're ashore?" he asked Marshall.

"Yes, Mr. President, we are. In force, and securely."

"Good. Casualties?"

"Light, for this kind of an operation. The Marines took 11 KIA and about 70 wounded."

Truman nodded. "OK – then when can we take the port?"

Marshall shrugged. "A direct assault can be launched at any time. General Smith assures me – and I believe him – that he can take the city even without the support of the 29th Infantry division. The question is casualties and damage to the port , which we want intact."

"No chance of a surrender by the garrison?" asked Truman.

"Actually, sir, there is." Marshall shrugged again. "These aren't the Soviets. General Smith is currently in negotiations with the Russian commander. He feels a negotiated surrender is not only possible, but probable. The open points of the negotiations apparently revolve around maintaining the Russian Army officers' noble prerogatives."

Truman looked up. "Noble prerogatives?"

Marshall shuffled some papers. "I don't know if I have the complete list here, but things like being quartered separately from their men, recreation time, better food, an alcohol allowance, and being allowed to keep their personal servants. Things like that."

Truman stared.

Marshall continued. "It is my advice that these terms – if not too onerous or outrageous – be accepted."

Truman frowned, and then looked up. "Agreed. We want the port, right, so we can move on to this Vladivostok place, right?"

Marshall nodded.

"Ok, next" Truman turn to Donovan. "What's the situation in Pomerania?"

Donovan placed a map down on the coffee table. "The baby tanks we lent the Pomeranians are on the move. We have radio contact with some ex-German POWs who are helping out there. They're moving to seize a supply depot, we'll see how that goes. If they are able to delay the Hanoverians by even a few days, we'll get the First Infantry Division to Stralsund first. Then we can simply dictate terms."

Truman nodded again. "Good. And we trust these Nazis with our tanks?"

Acheson spoke. "They aren't really Nazis, Mr. President. They are Germans yes, but we screened the hard-core fanatics; those we left in POW camps. As for the tanks," Acheson shrugged, "General Marshall will tell you, they have a small number of tanks we considered obsolete back in 1939. They aren't any kind of a threat." Acheson paused for a moment. "To us, at least."

Truman stared at Acheson for a moment, and then grunted. "Alright then, on to this British-Spanish war – what's happened?"

Acheson frowned. He didn't have good information here and was uncomfortable without it while briefing the President. "The war is global in scope. While we have some information on battles – the British held at Gibraltar but lost Malta – we have precious little on the whys. In the long run, we believe that the British will win, as without the French, the Spanish are out-weighed."

Truman nodded. "Do we have a side here?"

Acheson frowned again, and glanced at Donovan. "No sir, not really. While the Spanish are outwardly more hostile to us, and certainly their Emperor is a fanatic, I would speculate that the war was actually engineered by the British for some reason. I believe that Duke Mortimer himself is involved, but I can't say how. Additionally, I believe that the British are not reconciled to our presence here, whatever Mortimer says to the press."

Truman leaned back. "I'm hearing a lot of 'I speculate' and 'I believe' here, Mr. Secretary. Why don't we have better information?"

Acheson licked dry lips, but Bill Donovan rescued him. "Sir, President Roosevelt gave us strict orders regarding intelligence operations against either the British or the Alliance. We have limited information as a result."

"What are your assets focused on, then?" asked Truman.

"Russia, obviously, and Japan."

"Japan?" asked Truman.

"President Roosevelt felt it prudent, given their actions on our Earth."

"Is there any indication that they are planning to attack us?" Truman seemed puzzled.

Donovan's reply was unusually succinct and clear. "No."

Truman turned to Marshall. "If they were going to attack us, are they a threat?"

Marshall's reply was as clear as Donovan's. "No."

The President turned back to Donovan. "Then I want you to refocus your resources." Truman stared at the maps on the table. "Something fishy is going on here, and I want to know what it is."

* * *

Transcriber's note: I do apologize for not keeping up with the transcription. I am , however, pleased to state that regular updates will resume.


	18. Inferno

**LEGAL NOTICE: THE TWO GEORGES NOVEL BELONGS TO RICHARD DREYFUSS AND HARRY TURTLEDOVE. THE FOLLOWING STORY IS MIKE TURCOTTE'S. With that out of the way, enjoy!**

* * *

 _ **April 9, 1945**_

 _ **USAAF Base, Sandur, Faroe Islands**_

Lieutenant Malcolm Harwell of the Royal Navy Airship Scouting Corps staggered out of the USAAF B-29 he'd been in. As an observer attached the USAAF in its mission against the Russian Empire, Harwell had been with the B-29 – the 'Macy Sue'-for over two months now. In that time, while never forgetting his lineage or his assignment, he'd gotten to know the crew of the 'Macy Sue' pretty well.

Or so he'd thought.

USAAF Captain Bill Mason, the commander of the Macy Sue, was from Macomb, Illinois, and while Harwell had found it hard to think of the son of a plumber as an officer, Mason's infectious laugh and open, friendly attitude had won the British officer over. Mason had no problem with the foreign observer, and in training flights around the United States, Harwell had quickly fallen in love with the B-29. The majestic sweep of the wings, the power of the four engines, and Mason had even let him take the stick a few times.

Harwell though the Macy Sue was the most beautiful thing he's ever seen.

Now, looking at it, Harwell leaned over and was abruptly sick. Great heaves wracked his body and he fell to his knees. How could he have ever thought that a B-29 was anything other than monstrous?

A week ago, the Macy Sue and about a hundred of her sisters had deployed to hastily constructed airfields on the new US base on Sandur. Harwell had been amazed at the speed with which the Americans had constructed the airfield – someone had mentioned specialized US engineers called 'Seabees' – and a US base was springing from Sandur's cold rock.

Harwell felt a hand on his shoulder and looked up to see Mason's concerned face.

"Hey buddy, you OK?"

Harwell staggered to his feet and wiped his mouth with a handkerchief. He looked Mason in the eye, trying to regain his dignity. "Thank you for your concern, Captain. I am feeling better now."

Mason nodded sympathetically. "Hey, don't sweat it. A lot of guys get jittery when they go into combat for the first time-"

"It wasn't my first time. I was in the Aleutians with your Navy." Harwell interrupted sharply.

"Oh. Then what is it?"

"Riga" sputtered Harwell. "All those people – you just dropped so many bombs – they couldn't have had a chance –"

Mason eyes firmed up, and the humor left them. "That's war, Lieutenant, war."

"But … but … how was that war?"

Mason took a cigarette and lit it. "Well, the Russians have a big fleet base there."

"Your bombs didn't fall only on the base, sir, they fell EVERYWHERE."

Mason shrugged. "They have factories and rail yards there too."

"THOUSANDS of people – CIVILIANS – just DIED!" Harwell felt his usual aristocratic reserve break. " **YOU KILLED THEM.** " Harwell shuddered as he recalled the flames – almost liquid in their form – flowing across Riga. The US planes had dropped both 'high explosive' shells and something called 'napalm', which was some kind of petroleum weapon. It was, to Harwell, pure evil.

Harwell couldn't have heard them, but he imagined he could hear the cries of the citizens of Riga as the fire roared through the city. The Macy Sue had made a run over the city after the raid to assess the damage, and the Dantesque images of what was left would haunt Harwell forever.

Both men were distracted by a commotion at the other end of the field. The Russians had gotten lucky with the hastily erected AA defenses in Riga, and actually damaged a US B-29. That plane was on the other end of the field, clouds of smoke rising from it. Mason and Harwell looked over for a moment, and then turned away. Others had that situation well in hand.

Mason stared at the British officer for a moment, then shrugged, puffed on his cigarette and dropped it on the tarmac. He snuffed it out with his shoe. "Well, we don't target civilians, but I'm not going to tell you that they don't get killed."

"How do you justify this?" asked Harwell.

"You know, in the world we came from the British did the same thing. They launched thousand bomber raids all over the Nazis." Mason snorted. "Hell, this little 100 bomber raid on Riga barely counts." He lit another cigarette. "How do I justify it? Well, the way I see it, they declared war on us."

"They didn't do anything of the sort. The Tsar did."

Mason grinned coldly around his cigarette. "Then they should have picked a smarter Tsar."

Harwell stared open-mouthed at Mason. Surely he understood that the commoners in Riga hadn't – and couldn't have – done anything of the sort.

Before Harwell could respond, Mason continued. "Look Malcolm, you seem like a decent guy for an aristocrat." Harwell blinked as the son of a plumber presumed to judge him. "So let me give you some advice. It's pretty clear that you guys don't do things like we do. Well, that's too bad – right now it's too bad for the Russians, but I gotta tell you, it will be too bad for ANYONE who messes with Uncle Sam."

Harwell stared at Mason, and saw the coldness in Mason's eyes. The USAAF Captain continued. "This little dinky raid we launched is NOTHING compared to what will hit the Russians when the rest of the 8th Air Force gets here. So maybe you get with your people in London or wherever and let them know how bad this will get. Maybe they can get with the Russians and let them know. Because we're not going to stop, Lieutenant, not until that idiot Tsar is licked."

Harwell went cold at the tone of Mason's voice. The USAAF pilot was serious. "He picked the wrong people to mess with, and we're going to let him – and everyone else here – know it."


	19. Pivotal

**LEGAL NOTICE: THE TWO GEORGES NOVEL BELONGS TO HARRY TURTLEDOVE AND RICHARD DREYFUSS. THE FOLLOWING STORY IS MIKE TURCOTTE'S. WITH THAT OUT OF THE WAY, ENJOY!**

* * *

 _ **Atlanta, Georgia, United States of America**_

 _ **May 17th, 1945**_

He was amazed the coffee mug didn't shatter.

Marcus Washington gripped the inoffensive mug hard in his huge right hand. The mug itself was typical of what was found in diners across America; plain, white, ceramic, designed to be used and washed over and over again.

Marcus was a big man – over six feet tall and strong – the muscles in his forearm bulged as he gripped the mug and stared at the Western Union telegram. Had the mug not been so sturdy, coffee and shattered ceramic might have gone all over the counter Washington was sitting at.

Marcus was sure the Hollywood people would just LOVE that. At least they were leaving him alone for a few minutes.

The mug - sturdy as it was – was half-filled with lukewarm coffee. Washington had heard other patrons of the Midnight Star diner – here in Atlanta, Georgia - complaining about it – and in the months after the Event getting good coffee had been hard – but that was clearing itself up. The Spanish Empire – however much they found democratic America distasteful – seemed more than happy to sell America coffee from Grande Columbia and the British had added some from Jamaica. In any event, the coffee in the mug – lukewarm though it was – was a whole lot better than anything the US Army had ever let Marcus Washington (or anyone else on Sandur below the rank of Colonel) have.

Next the mug was the source of Washington's despair. The telegram was a small thing, but it changed Marcus Washington's life forever. It was from his younger sister, Marian. The wording was bland, to the point, cheap, what Marian could afford.

 _Mom passed over to God this morning. We miss you. Love, Marian._

Marcus Washington's father had passed away when he was 4. For his whole life, his mother had been the rock of his and his two sisters' lives. She had provided the small home in Tupelo, Mississippi, she had made sure there was always food on the table, and that they all went to school. Seemingly tireless, always cheerful, stern when she had to be, she kept the family safe and together – the center of his world for all of his 22 years.

The Event – for all of its strangeness – hadn't really impacted Tupelo that much, and his family had weathered it almost without notice. Marcus had joined the Army in 1942, and been assigned to a supply unit. He just gotten to England – and his family had been so excited about him seeing the world outside of Mississippi even if his mother worried a German might shoot him – when Washington saw a blue flash of light and he and his unit had found themselves just outside of Duluth, Minnesota. For a time, confusion had reigned, and then some scared cops had given them weapons (and the idea of a white man GIVING him a gun was utterly foreign to Washington) driven them in trucks up to the border with Canada. Only it wasn't Canada anymore, it was the British Empire, and there had been British troops there. Washington didn't have the greatest grasp of geopolitics, but he knew that America and England were friends against the Germans, and that Canada was – somehow – part of England.

There had been a tense standoff for a couple of days – with the 'British' in 'Canada' claiming that Minnesota was part of their Empire – which Marcus knew was nuts – until a regular US Army unit – with big Sherman tanks – showed up. Marcus was becoming an expert in US weapons – and he knew enough to see that the 'British' in 'Canada' were utterly outclassed.

Then Marcus and his unit – the 2011th Logistical Battalion – were reassigned to a hastily constructed base in Maine up near the new border. And, after a few months, Marcus finally got to go back to Tupelo again. His mother had been different. Still smiling, she had seemed lethargic and coughed all the time. She dismissed at as a winter cold, but Marcus could see his sisters were worried – very worried. They had taken Mom's cigarettes away, and it was obvious to Marcus that she craved them. Still, it had been a good trip, and Marcus had returned to Maine feeling better.

The telegrams from his sisters however had been more and more worried in tone as his mother's condition deteriorated, and Marcus was on the verge of requesting another leave when his unit was assigned to the big new base in the Faeroes on Sandur. Marcus saw the US Army as his way out of Mississippi. While there those in the Army – plenty in fact – who viewed black men the same way as most whites in Tupelo did, many did not. Marcus felt, in many ways, that the Army would give him as much as a fair shake as a black man in America could ever reasonably hope for. And when he'd been promoted to Corporal in 1944 he'd decided to try and make the Army his career. So he went to Sandur rather than requesting leave.

Then Hollywood happened.

Oh, Marcus hadn't planned it. Heck, he'd never imagined it. In addition to helping keep the great huge B-29s supplied – and Marcus thought that was a pretty airplane alright – the 2011th had been assigned the grunt labor of clearing Sandur of the low scrub brush that seemed to grow everywhere on the windswept isle. Marcus had been doing that – with a big machete – when the raid from Riga had returned.

Marcus didn't think much about the politics of the war against the Russian Empire that the United States was fighting. If the Russians were armed like the British had been, then it was like beating up an unarmed opponent, but Marcus didn't care about that. He kept his head down, worked hard, did his job. It was the available option, after all.

Then, after most of the planes had landed, a lone B-29 had appeared on the horizon. It was clearly in distress; smoke was pouring from the fuselage, and the whole base had gotten ready. Marcus and his team had ceased their labor to watch the B-29 try and land. The pilot had lined the suffering plane up with a runway, and the landing gear had come down.

But not all of it.

On the B-29's left side, the gear came part way down, and stopped, smoke and flame pouring the wheel well. Marcus had shouted out helplessly, pointing at the gear – everyone in 2011th was shouting – but there was no way to let the B-29 know. It had settled down on the good gear, and then with dreadful, horrible slowness, the left side of plane dipped down. The left wing of the plane hit the ground, bounced up, and then sagged down, the struts between it and the fuselage stressed too far. It dug into Sandur's soil, and the whole plane wrenched around in a spin on the ground. The remaining landing gear collapsed, and the plane had spun off the runway, metal shrieking as the fuselage threw up a hurricane of sparks. Making a sound like a living being in pain, the plane continued a slow spin coming apart as it did. A wing detached itself and careened off, and the cockpit was sheared off, smoke pouring from it.

The cockpit spun to a stop not far from the 2011th. Inside, Marcus could see the pilot, bloodied, struggling with the straps that secured him to his seat as the flames grew closer.

Marcus was moving before he knew what was happening. He didn't think – just reacted. He'd never been in a B-29 before, but the ruptured fuselage provided a ramp into the smoke-shrouded crew space. Once there, Marcus had wrapped a handkerchief over his nose and squinted through the smoke. One man in a seat was not moving while the pilot or co-pilot was struggling weakly with his straps. The machete Marcus had been using to clear Sandur's brush made short work of the straps holding both men to the flaming wreckage of the B-29, and then he dropped it, unceremonious hefted both men with a burst of hysterical strength, and fled.

He still didn't remember the trip out. He'd been blinded by the smoke, unable to breathe, and simply stumbling forward, carrying the two men, away from the hellish heat. Suddenly the smoke had cleared, and he'd been on Sandur's rough surface. He'd continued forward, now acutely aware of the weight of the two men, and then the others from the 2011th had been there, relieving him of his burden. Marcus had collapsed on the ground, gasping for breath. He looked up, and met the eyes of the pilot, who was looking at him. There was something familiar about the pilot, but Marcus couldn't place it, and was too preoccupied with the suddenly difficult task of breathing to much care.

Later he'd learned that the pilot he'd saved was Colonel James Stewart, or, as millions of American moviegoers knew him as, Jimmy Stewart.

It had been a big deal. Apparently Stewart had volunteered to make a low-level post-bombing photographic run over Riga to assess the damage from the raid. During that his plane had been struck by some Russian AA fire. It had limped back to Sandur and crash-landed there.

The Army decided to make Marcus a hero.

It wasn't that war enthusiasm was lacking at home, not at all. Most Americans were committed to seeing the war through – especially as FDR's legacy. However, while America was winning easily, there'd been precious little to be proud of. But Jimmy Stewart – well, he was a big as big names got. And that he'd been saved so heroically – well, that was something all right.

So Marcus got a promotion to Sergeant, and was put on a War Bond tour with Stewart, who'd been injured in the incident. Marcus had been surprised; America didn't generally go for colored Heros, but Stewart – and some others from the war department wanted him there. So Marcus, with his trusty machete (a tool he'd never seen before that day on Sandur and didn't really care about one way or the other) would appear with Stewart on stage, say a few words, and then retreat backstage. He'd figured it wouldn't last, but many reporters – both North and South – seemed fascinated with the idea of a black hero.

The tour had been cross-country, and Marcus had seen more of the United States than he'd ever suspected existed, but then they got to Atlanta. Marcus both liked and hated the south. He was familiar with the scenery, but many whites didn't appreciate him on the stage with Stewart. Stewart himself had been more than accommodating, publically shaking Marcus' hand at all events, and calling him a friend.

The Hollywood people were on the tour as well, constantly taking pictures, filming the events – Marcus was half-surprised they didn't follow him into the bathroom. But then the telegram had come. Marcus' mother was dead. He had cried when he got it, and Stewart and John Ford, the tour's producer had let him off for the night. So he sat in a diner, drinking lousy-but-better-than-Army coffee, and hoping somehow the letters on the telegram would re-arrange themselves into a nicer message. Any message would be nicer than what he had.

He felt a hand on his shoulder and looked up to see Frank Davis, one of the tour photographers. Davis smiled softly at him.

"Hey, tough break about your Mom, anything I can do?"

Marcus managed to shake his head no. "How'd the show go?"

Davis shrugged. "Ok, I guess. Jimmy missed you."

Marcus nodded.

Davis stared for a second more, and then nodded at a booth in the diner. Marcus saw a couple of technicians from the tour there drinking coffee and looking at menus. "I'll be over there if you need anything." Davis said.

Marcus nodded again and went back to contemplating his coffee.

Lost in his own thoughts, he didn't realize what was happening until it was too late.

"Just what do you think you're doing here, boy?"

Marcus turned at the sound of voice to see four young white men crowded around him. They all wore angry expressions – expressions Marcus knew too well. The Midnight Star wasn't whites-only, but there weren't any black patrons. Any other black patrons that was. Marcus would have paid attention to that normally, but in his grief he'd missed it.

The young man continued. "You're in the wrong place, BOY! Get outta here now!" The speaker jerked a thumb over a shoulder at the door.

Marcus wondered why none of them were in uniform. They looked young and healthy. He turned to speak, holding the telegram up. "OK, no problem – I'll just-"

One of the four snatched the telegram out his hand. "What's this – did you steal it?"

"Give that back!" said Marcus.

The first speaker leaned forward. "You don't give orders to a white man, boy!" All four laughed roughly at that.

There was a bright flash of light, and Marcus looked over to see Davis had snapped a picture. "Look, just let me have that back and I'll leave – I don't want no trouble-"

"Shut up spook!" said the first man. "What's that anyway?" he asked the man holding the telegram.

The guy glanced at it. "Just a telegram. Something about his whore of a momma finding God or someth-"

Similar to the B-29, Marcus acted. At the words 'whore of a momma' his right fist smashed out, catching the guy on jaw. The telegram-stealer, spun completely around, and fell down. His three friends looked shocked for one moment, and then threw themselves at Marcus. But then Davis and the two technicians came in on Marcus' side.

When the cops arrived a few minutes later, Marcus was the only one they arrested.

And changed American history forever.


End file.
